


I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire

by gemmawolf



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fallout, Blood and Gore, Drugs, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3827788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemmawolf/pseuds/gemmawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fallout AU, full story of 'What to Buy for Valentines Day After the End of the World'. Alfred leaves home in search of his father, only to find a world much more vast and dangerous than the vault in which he grew up. His only chance of survival, and chance to see his dad again, is to team up with a gun nut and a chain-smoking ghoul. Perhaps he can make the best of a bad situation without getting his head blown off, but war... war never changes.</p>
<p>Rating may change, new characters and warnings will be added.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

Searing light. Choking, dust-filled air. The perpetual scent of burning. So this was the outside world.

Alfred staggered blindly onto the outcrop of rock, his eyes squinted in an effort to adjust them to the harsh brightness of the mid-morning sun. He pulled his old red baseball cap from his bag and fixed it snugly on his head. With a shadow cast over his face he could now see just how big, and devestated, the world really was. Blackened shells of houses and broken roads swept away into the distance, where a strange dome and some sort of pillar reached to the sulphurous yellow sky. Catching his breath, he rested his hand on a metal sign, only to snatch it back when it burned his skin on contact; it had been soaking up heat from the sun all morning. It was rusted, the blue paint flaking off, its letters reading 'Scenic Overlook'. Rubbing his sore palm, he gazed around to his right; a huge structure, some sort of bridge, stretched through the sky, collapsed in places. Either side of the crumbled tarmac was sand, sand, sand, with a few rocks here and there, and the burnt out skeletons of trees, barely more than splintered charcoal. There wasn't another person in sight.

"What now?" he whimpered to himself. His sides ached from the breaths forced in and out of his body as he ran for his life, receiving only a single graze on his arm from the dozens of bullets he dodged. His heart had settled back into a calm pace at least, but he felt dizzy from thirst and hunger. He hadn't chance to grab anything from the food dispensers after Amata shook him awake an hour ago. He looked back to the cluster of houses a stones-throw away, and decided they were his best bet for finding something.

Careful not to turn an ankle, he climbed down the dusty slope and onto the road, which swept downhill at a slight curve. He knew some things about life outside the Vault from some old holotapes Amata had found in the archives, which they watched in the classroom once everyone else went to bed. The tapes had pre-war footage with houses, trees, cars; nothing was burnt out or broken, mountains of food were stored in communal buildings where people could go and collect it, and everyone had room to move around. This landscape was far from the picture perfect life depicted on those tapes though. He passed the burnt out shell of a car, glancing inside to see if the driver and any passengers remained. Empty.

The road surface was littered with shopping carts, scattered papers, and plastic bags, stirred by the breeze as he made his way toward the gutted houses. The first one he reached was surrounded by a mostly destroyed fence, but he still felt it was polite to enter through the gate. Rooting around the rubble and shards of dry wood proved fruitless, as did the house across the road, but the third landed him the jackpot - a safe. Reluctant, he crouched down to pick the lock with one of the bobby pins Amata had given him earlier; he found it hard to believe that after two centuries no one else had managed to get it open. After getting several of pins broken or stuck, he heard a click and heaved the door open. He huffed a dry laugh as he pulled the contents out into the light, musing that this was what people before the war deemed important: bullets, whiskey, and a pile of old world paper money. He wasn't sure how or what people traded out here, but he figured they must be worth something.

He worked his way down the street, picking out anything with a possible use or value. He was so absorbed in the task, thankful that it took his mind off his impending problems, he almost missed the crackle of his pip-boy coming to life with the faintest traces of a radio signal. Frowning, he stopped to squint at the screen. The effort strained his eyes somewhat but he managed to make out _Galaxy News Radio_ glowing in green. The signal was barely there, clinging to life, nothing more than white noise, but it was there.

He switched it off for now, as the constant buzz gave him a headache, and continued searching the ruins of the neighbourhood. In a mailbox he found a letter addressed to the Gomez family, accepting them into Vault 101. The realisation that the houses last occupants were the ancestors of Officer Gomez, who he'd spoken to not an hour ago. The family line had survived through the generations, safe in the Vault, preserved forever. He wondered if the original family knew their descendants were never meant to see daylight again.

'Because in Vault 101 no one ever enters, and no one ever leaves'; a laughable saying now that both his father and him had disproven it twice in the same day.

A large building loomed down the street. Thoughts of food stores shown on two-hundred year-old holotapes drew him towards it, only have someone open fire on him. With a startled shout he tore back to the houses in search of a hiding place; the last thing he wanted, or needed, was a fight to the death not even a mile from the vault entrance. Luck was on his side it seemed, as he stumbled across a bungalow tucked away in a corner, sheltered from the firestorm of the Great War. It had all its walls, an almost complete roof, and best of all a solid wooden door. With war cries in the distance he slipped inside and slid to the floor with his back to it, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Hey!"

He froze at the appearance of a young woman from the next room. A quick glance around showed that this was her place; bottles, dirty plates and discarded boxes, and just about every chem in existence littered the tables and countertops. He stood up in case he needed to make a quick escape.

The blonde woman glared at him and grabbed a knife off a nearby surface. Alfred drew his gun. Her eyes widened in what he hoped was fear; anything to keep a serrated blade at bay. Her eyes flickered from the short barrel to his face. "Who the hell are you? Did Moriarty send you?" she spat. He decided to roll with it.

"Yeah." Well, there wasn't much else he could say. "Yeah, Moriarty sent me."

She growled and tossed the knife aside. "That bastard! He's a liar, he just wants me dead. Those caps are all mine - I earned them!"

"Just give me the, er, caps, and I'll tell him you're gone," he reasoned.

He watched her bite her lip, weigh up her options. "Fine, take it." She pulled a cloth purse from her hoodie pocket and threw it to him; he caught it in his free hand, and had to smother his confused expression when he heard the odd clink of metal from within. "Four-hundred caps. Now leave me alone so I can shoot myself up 'til I forget who I am."

With a curt nod he backed out the front door and back into the wasteland.

The first thing he did was race back to the first couple of houses for cover. He couldn't hear any voices or gunshots, but he didn't wish to test his luck. Sitting on the front step of a house he opened the makeshift purse to see what all the fuss was about.

Bottlecaps. Hundreds of bottlecaps.

"Seriously?" he whined, letting his head fall back against the doorframe with a thud. He sighed. Then he noticed the vending machine. It squatted under the rusting sign of a gas station, its lights blinking sadly as it was ignored by the world. He staggered to his feet and wandered over, curious if there was anything left for the taking. He stuck his arm into the slotbox at the bottom and as luck would have it, a perfectly intact bottle of pre-war soda sat waiting for him. Careful not to shoot himself in the leg, he pried the top off with the trigger guard of his pistol, earning a satisfying pop! and fizz from the ancient bronze liquid. The relentless sun had worn him down, ground him into the dust, so it was without hesitation that he brought the glass to his lips and gulped it down, choking on the bubbles. It burned in his throat but it was sweeter than anything he'd tasted in his life. Not a minute later the bottle was empty, and in a fit of inspiration he dropped the newly acquired cap into the purse, already a little richer.

And judging by the Geiger-counter on his Pip-boy, already a little more radioactive.

He stared at the tiny meter, eyes wide with the realisation he had just poisoned himself. He'd never been exposed to radiation before, save for these few short hours wandering about the ruins of the old world. Would he die? Grow a third arm? "Shit, shit, shit," he whimpered, pacing on the spot and ruffling up his hair in a panic. He returned his gaze the Geiger-counter, breaths fast and heavy; the needle remained at a mere 2 rad. He bit his lip. It wasn't going _up_ at least, but rads were rads. He'd just have to be careful.

Picking up his backpack and small collection of belongings, he pushed on in search of somewhere safe to stay until he could figure out where his father was headed. Further down the road was a sign. It was black and curved and made of corrugated metal, with big capital letters scrawled across it in yellow paint. _MEGATON_ , it read, and pointed to the right, down a dried out ravine. With no other traces of civilisation, Alfred reasoned that it was his best bet, and followed the signs instruction.


	2. Post Apocalyptia

With the carpet of bullets raining overhead and his attackers closing in, he knew it wouldn't be long before he was dead. After scouting the edge of the D.C. ruins, he'd yet to find a path between the husks of buildings leading to the Galaxy News Radio Plaza; from what he'd learnt about the city in its pre-war days, a series of tunnels connected neighbourhoods from all over the city limits to allow citizens to travel easily from home to work. He decided to take advantage of one such tunnel called 'Friendship Heights', but failed to anticipate that raiders would in turn take advantage of the metros attractiveness to travellers.

A car in the parking lot behind him exploded in a purple plume of smoke and fire, flinging shrapnel in all directions. A piece wedged itself in his shoulder, and he cried out, hunkering down further behind the low wall in the hopes of evading the enemies iron sights. If a direct hit with a missle could rock a rusted old Corvega into a minature thermonuclear explosion, he dreaded to think what it could do to him. Another ballistic whistled through the air and struck the corner of a building. He weighed up his chances at running. Slim. He couldn't slip into the metro station, they'd fire on him from above, not to mention he'd be cornering himself. How the hell had his dad made it past here? The lack of the doctor's body indicated he'd made it further than his soon-to-be-late son had. "Useless," he muttered to himself, gripping the hilt of his pistol tighter. " _Disappointment_." So this was how his mother's sacrifice was going to end? Her life for his, and he threw it away trying to take on a gang of raiders. Idiot.

Just as he began to consider letting his attackers use him as target practice, shouts and screams errupted from the camp. It took him a moment to register that more guns had entered the fight, and glanced to his left to see two new figures, a young man and a ghoul. The confusion had him rooted to his hiding spot. He'd come across a ghoul already, Gob, a stranded bartender back in Megaton, and learnt quickly that they and 'normal' humans didn't work well together; too much bigotry from the humans who thought them no more than mindless zombies. From what he'd heard it surprised him to see them working in a team, and an effective one at that, as the raiders were picked off one by one. The ghoul was armed with a laser pistol, and probably had more than a lifetimes practice at aiming it. A raider burned bright and turned to red hot dust, hit square in the chest with a single discharge. The human had given up on bullets and resorted to grenades, and seemed to be enjoying himself, hurling curses as well as explosives. Meanwhile, the raider with the missile launcher reloaded his weapon.

Clearly forgotten, Alfred slipped around the other side of the barrier, fitting more bullets into his gun. A grenade exploded somewhere and caused a ramshackle wall of corrugated metal and barbed wire to nearly collapse on him. He was close now, the raider's back facing him, within range for even a beginner's shot. He heard the ghoul shout to his companion to look out; he'd spotted the enemy, and the man was in directly in his sights.

The crack of a pistol and the clatter of the missile launcher hitting the ground followed, hiding the ghastly splatter as the front of the raiders skull tore apart from the exit wound. Then silence. Alfred scrambled to his feet as the air cleared of smoke and dust, making himself known to the two strangers.

They stared at him.

He stared back.

He waved at them. "Hey there."

The two said nothing for a moment, then, "Are you on your _own_ out here?" the man demanded; it made Alfred feel like a naughty child again, like the time he'd rigged cherry bombs to the underside of Mr Brotch's toilet seat and been lectured in front of the class. His dad was not happy.

"I, uh, yeah?" he replied, picking his way closer, trying not to step on and bodies. Or parts of bodies.

The man raised his shotgun at him.

"Easy Arthur," the ghoul croaked, "he's just a kid."

"Please," he huffed, still holding his aim, "he's got to have something up his sleeve. No one's crazy enough to head to D.C. on their own with just a 10mm pistol." He send Alfred another scrutinising look. The teenager bit his lip.

The man sighed, and lowered his weapon. "Really? Fucking _really_? Do you have a death wish, kid?"

"I'm looking for my dad," he mumbled, as if that explained it all.

The man laughed dryly. "Ain't we all?"

Alfred straightened up, his expression hard. "No, seriously. He left the vault a few days ago, no warning, no explanation, nothing. I have to find him."

"Shit, he's not lying smoothie, look at him - Vault-tec jumpsuit, Pip-boy and everything," the ghoul choked out, eyes widening further despite the lack of eyelids.

The other checked him up and down, then gawked at him. "You really have no idea about life out here, do you?" he said softly, then shrugged. "Well you'd better learn fast, there's no second chances in the wasteland." He motioned to the near-decapitated raider with the barrel of his gun. "You killed that poor bastard, so anything on his corpse is yours, that's how it usually goes. We'll pick over the rest."

Before the vault dweller could question him further - who were they? What did they want? Why were they here? - they spread out to loot the bodies. He turned back to his share of the spoils, the multilated body of his victim, and plucked up the courage to pat it down for anything useful. He tried not to look at the head, or what was left, not wanting to lose what little he'd eaten that morning. A few caps, a cannister of jet and a blunt knife was all he turned up, beside the hulking great missile launcher of course. He picked the monstrosity up, checking it over. "Is this worth anything?" he called to the others, who'd already finished up witht he bodies and were clearing out the camp.

The ghoul wandered over to him. He'd lit a cigarette and puffed happily away on it, his dry and peeling lips struggling to hold it in place. "Depends what condition its in to be honest," he explained, "and if you fancy hauling it around until you can trade it off." He stood close to Alfred, close enough for him to smell rotting meat and see his trachea through the thin layer of skin at his throat. He tried not to gag; that would be rude. He felt his eyes on him, and glanced at him. His irises were blue, but the 'whites' were yellowed and bloodshot. His nose ended halfway down the bridge, presumably where the cartilage used to start. It looked as though his cheeks would tear if he opened his mouth too wide.

"I-I never caught your name?" he stammered, realising he'd been staring.

Puff, puff, puff went the cigarette. "Francis," he rasped.

He tried not to snigger. "Isn't that a girls name?"

"It's _French_."

"French?" Alfred repeated. "What's that?"

"French, as in, from France. It used to be a country, a different one, from before the war."

"Oh, you mean like that 'America' that Presedent Eden keeps going on about?"

The ghoul, Francis, cackled. "You listen to that crap? Cute. Yes, like America, where we are. Were. Where _it_ was - whatever."

"But how can you be French if France doesn't exist anymore?" Francis gave him a look that said 'do the maths'. "Oh," he said once it clicked. Well, now he'd gone and put his foot in his mouth he might as well ask the burning question: "You remember the war?"

"Remember it?" he smirked, "I was part of it. I worked for RobCo, designed and built those Protectrons and Brainbots you see all over the wasteland. I was in an underground government lab when the bombs struck; escaped the fire and heat, only to take an almost deadly dose of radiation, _et voila_. Ghoul."

"Hey, zombie! You want any of this booze or not?" the other shouted from within the camp. Alfred winced.

"He always call you that?" he asked Francis quietly.

"Yeah, but I throw it right back at him. Don't I, smoothskin?" he shouted back, then turned to Alfred; he tried to wink, but there wasn't much left of his eyelids to wink with. "Arthur's got a rough exterior, but he's alright once he's got a safe place to sleep." He headed over to where the man was collecting bottles off a shelf.

Alfred remained where he was, trying to make heads or tails of the duo. One thing was for certain, he need their help. With his injuries and only a few supplies remaining he wasn't sure he could limp back to Megaton alone, forget traversing the metro. He decided the busted old launcher wasn't worth its weight and dropped it, then followed them into a makeshift canteen that the raiders had set up, empty bottles and rusted cans scattered about; a checkerboard sat on one table, a radio on another quietly rumbling with the broadcast of Galaxy News Radio. He took a seat next to it and fiddled with the knobs, trying to boost the volume as a way to distract himself from the guilt of taking another persons life, even if they tried to blow him to bits. Still reeling from the shock of the last few minutes, he almost missed Three Dog's latest news report.

_"-had recently left Vault 101. His name was James, good guy."_

He bolted upright.

_"Turns out, it gets better! I've got a new report here that said someone else had just climbed out of that hole. What the Hell is going on down there? Revolution? Vacation? Somebody fart? Your guess is as good as mine kiddies."_

"Hey!" he leapt off the stool and ran over to the others. "Hey guys, did you here that?" They looked at him blankly. "My dad's alive, Three Dog's met him! I need to get the the GNR Plaza, before I lose track of him."

Arthur shook his head. "Nope, no way."

"Why not? You guys can handle it!"

The man rounded on him, prodding him in the chest with a finger. "What do you know? You've barely set foot outside that vault of yours, you've no idea what's going on in D.C.. Even if we make it past the packs of feral ghouls in the tunnels there are _countless_ super mutants roaming through the streets. Have you ever seen one? If you did you'd turn tail and run before it made you its meal."

"But with three of us-"

"We'd still have no chance. We're not risking it."

The teenager stepped back. "I have to," he said. "And if you two won't help me, then I'll do it on my own."

"Fuck Art, he's not joking around," Francis sighed, throwing the stub of his cigarette away. "We can't let him go alone."

Arthur didn't reply to his friend, only glared at Alfred. His eyes were a sharp green, his fringe, a ragged curtain across his forehead, brushing just above them. His leather armour was scratched and patched and burnt, repaired and repaired so much that he doubted any of the original parts were left. He appeared only a few years older than himself but so much more experienced, a wealth of skills and knowledge that he could really, really do with. But he was asking too much, and had nothing to offer in return, so Alfred was surprised when he proposed a deal. "You ride with us, learn to shoot, upgrade your gear," he said slowly, "and when we're ready to take on the Muties, we'll help you." He snatched Francis' new light out of his hand and took a drag, then handed it back. "Still suicide if you ask me," he muttered on the exhale.

Alfred blinked. "Why? I'm a burden, what could you possibly gain from this?"

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," he lectured, then muttered, "Not that I know what the fuck a horse is."

"No, but seriously, why?"

He handed him a bag; it carried a few stimpaks, some bottles of dirty water, some non-perishables and spare ammo. "Because you've got potential. You made it to north D.C. from Megaton on your own - that's some feat. Only the toughest survive out here, or the luckiest, and you're one of them." He swept the rest of the sites goodies into his own backpack and returned it to his shoulders. "You in?"

"Yeah," Alfred replied, slowly nodding his head. "I'm in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FALLOUT 4 HAS BEEN ANNOUNCED AND A TRAILER RELEASED I'M SOBBING!  
> This took a while since I'm trying to post chapters once I've written the one /after/ it. I just need to find my notes for chapter 3 then that will be done and chapter 4 can start. But omg, Fallout4...  
> Hope you like Arthur and Francis, they're bros. Backstories in the future, I promise ;)  
> Thanks for reading and for the response! xxx


	3. Welcome to the Wasteland

Even with the absence of a designated leader, Arthur made most of the calls. Alfred quickly learnt that this was down to the ghoul's laid-back, or rather couldn't-care-less, attitude; besides, he doubted their relationship could work if they didn't stand on equal ground. However, it was quite clear that he was at the bottom of the pecking order in their new band of three. The older man couldn't care less that a piece of metal the size of a golfball was stuck in the teenager's shoulder, his priority was to get as far away from D.C. as quickly as possible. It was early afternoon when they left the ruins of the raider camp, and after an hour of travelling north they came across a row of pre-war houses with a handful of standing walls, ideal for cover from both enemies, animals and the elements. Finally, he could sit down and have someone rip the shrapnel from his flesh.

"You're sure about this?" Francis asked, voice wavering at the thought of the procedure.

"It's got to come out sooner or later. Look, I've taken some med-X, you've got a stimpak at the ready, just do it."

The ghoul didn't say another word before he jerked the strip of corrugated iron from his shoulder. It hadn't been buried very deep, but the action sent searing pain through his nerves and he let out a cry past gritted teeth. The wound throbbed so hard he failed to notice when the needle was plunged into his back and the syringes contents forced into the muscle. He didn't want to think about how badly it would've hurt without the pain buffer beforehand. Reaching around with his good arm, he disinfected the cut as best he could with a bottle of vodka and some spare bandage pieces. It was their last stimpak, but the others were certain they'd make it to their destination within the day and be able to trade for some more.

The other human watched him with sick fascination. "You must be crazy," Arthur muttered, and returned to studying his worn map.

"I know what I'm doing," Alfred replied with a hiss as he pulled his jumpsuit back up.

Arthur laughed, taking a sip of murky water from a beaten plastic bottle. "Do you now?"

"My dad's a doctor," he explained, giving the joint a good work out, the flesh already stitching itself back together from the high dose of steriods. "It made sense for me to learn his trade back in the vault."

"Anyone can shoot themselves with a stimpak, it doesn't make you anything special. Now shut up; I'm trying to concentrate."

The youngest of three settled back down in the dirt, knees to his chin and frowning at the world. He was used to being downtrodden at home, between the Overseer's clear distaste for the friendship between his daughter and him, the strict Vault 101 security team, and his own father dodging every question he threw at him about his mother. He was an underdog, an ant, insignificant. This world didn't care if he lived or died, he didn't matter, his life didn't make a difference to anyone else's. He allowed himself to speculate that maybe things would be different up here, maybe he could make a name for himself but no, that wasn't how the world worked, was it? He was just a can being kicked down the road, and these were his new masters.

"So where we goin' anyway?" he spoke up eventually, tired of the silence stretching between them.

Arthur growled in a way a yao guai would to her bothersome cubs. "Canterbury Commons," he sighed. He rose to his feet and folded the map away. "We'll skirt east of the Corvega factory, and continue north. If we get moving now we can make it before Doc Hoff moves out."

Alfred groaned; he'd just sat down, and the pain in his back was finally ebbing. "A few more minutes! Please?"

A swift kick up the arse was all it took to get him moving.

\---

He didn't want to consider the state his feet were in. While the trek from Megaton to the outskirts of D.C. was long, he was free to travel at his own pace; Arthur and Francis, however, were unstoppable, hardened to the heat overhead and the sharp stones underfoot. They paid no heed to his pleas of slowing down or, God forbid, stopping for a few minutes. He was met with harsh words whenever his arms and focus dropped, lowering his gun and his guard. His legs fell into auto-pilot after the third hour, tumbling forward one by one without him feeling or controlling them.

A large building bulged on the horizon, panned to their left, and disappeared behind his back. Pre-war vehicles littered its grounds, gutted for materials to build houses and fortresses across the wasteland. Faded billboards stood by the entrance, advertising the newest and shiniest Corvega model 2077 had to offer. "Is it worth a look in there?" he called to the others, who'd covered quite some distance as he slowed down to gaze at his surroundings.

They turned back to him, expressions blank, their lips drawn tight in an attempt not to yell at him. "I short: no," Arthur ground out, and turned back to face the way they were travelling.

Alfred jogged to catch up. "And in long?"

Arthur spun round and marched up to him, throwing his arms out as he ticked off every reason why it was a bad idea to go shambling through the ruins of a pre-war industrial building. "It's dark and cramped. There's lots of corners you can't see around. Heavy machinery is dangerous. Security systems could still be online. _And!_ \- there's probably nothing of value left anyway." He stopped just short of being toe-to-toe with the teen, intimidating despite being a couple of inches shorter than him. "Understood?"

The taller one shrunk somewhat. "I'm just trying to help."

"Yeah? Well you're not. Just stay back-"

"Arthur," Francis croaked quietly from further ahead.

"- quiet Francis, I'm on a roll. Stay back, shut up-"

" _Arthur_."

The man turned back to his friend. "Don't tell me you're taking his-" He dropped his sentence and pulled his shotgun from his shoulder to raise it at the radscorpion scuttling their way across the sand. Alfred took a sharp breath and edged backwards, eyes fixed on the gigantic arachnid coming straight at them. He'd come across one or two since leaving Vault 101; they had been much smaller specimens, yet nonetheless fearless, taking on stray robots and even whole caravans - brahmin, guard and all. He'd avoided them, moved out of sight and found another way around. You didn't want to tangle with them up close, within range of that fierce stinger, dripping with radioactive poison.

Arthur pulled the trigger, but the gun only gave an apologetic click. He swore and cracked it open to slot another two bullets inside. "Don't just stand there you idiot," he screeched at the teenager, "shoot it!"

Francis had already discharged several blasts of high-energy photons from his laser pistol, but it wasn't doing the trick; the specialised armour that made up the monsters exoskeleton dispersed the concentrated heat as if it were nothing more than raindrops rolling over glass. Alfred fired at the radscorpion until his pistol clicked emptily; hardly a dent had been made, and most of the bullets missed anyway. He continued to retreat, keeping an even distance with it, as he reloaded as well.

He glanced at Arthur as he shoved two bullets inside his weapon. He too was backing away, the radscorpion following even as the ghoul pelted it with energy charges. The survivalist lined up to shoot, then tripped backward over the debris of a pre-war motorcycle, the bullets firing into the air completely off target. Before there was time to act it was upon him, and that vicious stinger whipped forward and struck. Paralysed with agony as the venom entered his bloodstream, Arthur let out a strangled scream.

Alfred took another step backwards, then froze. He couldn't leave him, he had to do something; but what hope did he have against a radscorpion of that size? It was suicide. There had to be something he could do other than shoot at it while it picked the guy clean. With Francis' relentless attack he decided he could afford a couple of seconds to frantically search his Pip-for any information stored on the creature.

As he flicked through the menus, something caught his eye. As a child he did his part in keeping the radroach population down in the vault by picking them off with a BB gun he got for his tenth birthday. He could couldn't shoot for shit now and he certainly couldn't back then, which was why he used the inbuilt Vault-tec Assisted Targeting System in his Pip-boy. Once blowing the heads off radroaches lost its novelty, he'd stopped using it, but maybe he could work it out again after all these years.

Booting up V.A.T.S. had always been a peculiar experience. Somehow, it optimised the users brain in a combat situation, allowing them to pick between the targets at lightning speed, as well as increasing their accuracy. In under a second he focussed his attention on the radscorpion, particularly the highlighted weakpoint that was its tail, and fired four new bullets. Either through genius or downright luck, each of the ammunition tore through the gaps in the armour plating, and severed the tail. Viscous yellow liquid spurted from the wound, and the radscorpion pulled back in full retreat. V.A.T.S. closed itself to recharge, leaving Alfred disorientated and staggering about the crumbling road as Francis fired on the creature. With the inner flesh exposed, the laser blasts struck with deadly effectiveness, cooking it dead inside its own shell.

Dazed, Alfred weaved his way toward Arthur, his figure sprawled over the rear of a car, limbs jolting. For the first time since exiting the vault, Alfred knew what to do. "Lay him on the ground," he ordered to Francis, who made it to his friend first. "You got any rad-away?"

Francis said nothing as he gently lowered the human to the ground; his stiff features struggled to form a frown of concern. Despite being a scientist, this was not his forte; wires and proccessor chips were his speciality, not flesh and blood. Alfred made it to their side, head clearer now and a plan already in action. The ghoul pulled Arthur's backpack from underneath his twitching form, and fished out a pack of rad-away. The vault dweller didn't wait to check the older male's radiation level before edging a needle into a protruding vein and ordering the ghoul to hold the pack up. He pressed the back of his hand against his patient's forehead. "Arthur? Can you hear me? Nod your head, blink, do something if you understand me."

There were signs of life yet; Arthur's features constricted tighter in agony and the faintest of nods could be picked up through the spasms gripping his body. Even though the chemicals had begun to flush his system of rads, both from the venom and from a lifetime of drinking irradiated water, Arthur's complexion continued to pale, his breathes to grow tight. Alfred couldn't ignore a heavily bleeding wound, but with the end of the stinger still stuck in his stomach pumping venom into his system, he had little choice.

He had no antivenom. He'd have to improvise. With no experience of radscorpion stings, he had to hope they were like radroach bites, only much bigger. Thankfully, he'd bagged a box of Abraxo Cleaner back at the raider camp, and although he wasn't sure of the exact measurement, he estimated the whole thing would do the trick.

He paused as he tore the box open. "This might sting a little," he said to Arthur, and poured it out onto the injury. Instantly, Arthur folded almost in half and cried out again, breath shuddering in and out of his body, held up by tension alone, then collapsed back down onto the road. Francis muttered something in French and glanced around, lighting himself a new cigarette. They were out in the open, vulnerable and alone, with one man and one gun down. They had to work quickly.

Alfred rolled up his jumpsuit sleeves and set about carefully removing the barb from the gored flesh with a pair of tweezers; he didn't want to leave anything behind. He didn't throw it away once he extracted it safely, just set it aside until he had time to study it; perhaps he could make an antidote, and they wouldn't have to worry about this happening in the future. Next he removed Arthur's armour with help from his impromptu assistant, to clean and bind the nasty gash in his torso. If they could staunch the wound the battle would be half won. He eyed the gunman's physique with an understanding pity. There was hardly anything to him, all pale skin stretched over angled bones with a concaved stomach; he imagined this was typical of Wastelanders though, through the permanent radiation sickness gained from their non-existent diet of mutated animal meat, supplemented by the few pre-war confectionery items that could be scavenged and traded. And here was he, all toned and well-fed from nutrition vendors in the cafeteria, fed vitamins through the vaults water system, lungs healthy from the perfectly balanced and clean air. He wrapped the bandages around Arthur's body consumed by guilt, unable to avoid noticing how little of the roll was needed to wrap around several times.

The rad-away pack was soon drained and the needle pulled from his arm. All they could do now was time his heart rate and breaths, and wait.

Alfred called time after the fifth check-up. He took his fingers away from Arthur's neck and helped him sit up now that it was clear he wouldn't have a heart attack from the stress on his body. The fight for life had taken a great deal out of him; he was unable to lift his arms to hold a bottle of water, and they ended up holding it to his lips as he drank. The sun was setting behind the ruins of the freeway, but they were miles from Canterbury Commons. Francis put responsibility before his smoking habit and took charge, deciding they were better off away from the road and with a slope at their backs. He took the bags and lead the way to a suitable spot as Alfred, the stronger of the two, heaved Arthur onto his back and carried him, the mans' arms looped around his neck as he drifted to sleep.

\---

After what seemed like mere moments of blissful darkness, it was morning. Or rather, he was being nudged with the toe of a filthy boot.

"Get up."

He tried to ask what time it was, but only an alien gargle escaped his mouth. Instead, he brought his Pip-boy to his face, readjusting his glasses from their skewed position, and checked its twenty-four hour clock. Five. The white-hot sun was already rising fast over the wastes, baking the dirt and crisping the skin of anyone foolish enough to wander the desert, such as Alfred. Despite it being far too early in his opinion, he clambered to his feet and collected his things, legs throbbing as they begged to continue their rest. He was pleasantly surprised to see Arthur up and about; he sat by the ashes of last nights fire, tediously working his way through a pack of sugar bombs. The teen wandered over to him. "You ok?" he asked, wincing at the absurdity of the question.

Arthur sent him a half-hearted glare. Dark circles sat under his eyes, his skin still pale though improving in colour. "Fine," he muttered through a mouthful of cereal. "Just dandy."

He let the sarcasm slide; anyone who managed to dodge death like that deserved a break, even if they were a certified dick. "You alright to walk today, or do you want me to carry you again?" he retorted.

The other man stood up and tossed the empty box onto the remains of the campfire. He appeared to sway on the spot, but didn't tumble. "I'll walk thanks," he replied, wincing.

Alfred shrugged and opened his bag in search of his small collection of medical supplies. "Suit yourself. I need to replace your bandages though, unless you want an infection. Sit down."

"I'm fine."

"I said sit down."

Arthur glared at him, the radioactive green burning his resolve, but the gunman gave out first and settled back onto the ground. He allowed Alfred to do what he needed without protest, and remained admirably quiet considering the pain he must have been in as the venom-soaked cleaning powder was brushed out of the wound, and new bandages wrapped tight around it. The vault dweller didn't like the silence; he couldn't tell what the other was thinking or feeling. "So, do you have a habit of nearly getting yourself killed?" he asked, accepting he was poking a sleeping lion.

The other man huffed. "No. Besides, it was your fault."

" _My_ fault?" Alfred scoffed as he tied off the bandage and let him loose. "How was it _my_ fault?"

"You distracted me! If I hadn't taken my eyes off the horizon-"

"You decided to start lecturing me!" he snapped back. "You could have ignored me, or just told me to shut up, but oh no, you had to assert your dominance! Put me in my place!" He stood up and threw his bag over his shoulder, ready to go. "I saved your life. Don't forget it."

He turned around and marched off, the others no doubt staring at him as he went. He'd show them. He could be a useful part of this team, he could reach the standard. He had to, or else he'd never get into D.C. to find his dad. Nothing could stop him. No one could stop him.

"You're going the wrong way, idiot!"

No one except Arthur.

\---

Their pace had slowed considerably. It was clear that Arthur was pushing himself as much as he could manage, but it wasn't getting them anywhere fast. The hike from yesterday had ground to a tedious plod, and with nothing but dust and rocks and mirages to look at, Alfred was bored out of his mind. Today he scouted ahead rather than hung at the back; that was where Arthur lingered. Whenever they reached a hill he jogged up it with glee in the hopes that their destination would be on the other side, only to find another expanse of desert. The constant stopping and starting was harder on his joints than the relentless march of the previous day, and he needed something to distract himself. His Pip-boy had proved useful in a tight spot, so he resolved to learn his way around it for any other tricks it stored.

He could keep track of their combined inventory in list format. He could assess his body for damage on a limb-by-limb basis, as well as monitor his heart- and breathing-rate. He could use the Geiger-counter to track the radiation level of himself and others, as well as the current environment. There was a detailed map for the immediate area, filled in by radar and recorded for future reference, as well as a larger one spanning hundreds of square kilometres to help plan journeys; unfortunately, he lacked the marker for Canterbury Commons. He had data storage for notes, passwords and holotapes, and finally, a tunable radio. Oh what he'd give to pick up the crackled signal of Galaxy News Radio this far north of D.C., but his only option was the cyclic drone of the Enclave radio station, some pre-war propaganda channel which had miraculously avoided having its broadcasting tower and power supply destroyed in the nuclear fire. He couldn't stomach it though. He found it hard to believe there were only two radio stations out here; there had to be other independent broadcasters, surely? Be it news, music, hell even a distress signal; he longed for signs of life. So when he spotted the lone radio tower, he simply had to investigate.

"It's not far, a ten minute walk? Come on, please?"

The ghoul shook his head. "We don't need any more diversions," he replied, tone firm as he continued to walk, occasionally checking behind him to make sure Arthur hadn't collapsed.

Alfred persisted. "I'll go on my own then," he bargained, "and you two can wait here. Arthur needs a rest, even if he won't admit it."

"Let him go, Francis," he called from behind them. "If he gets lost that's one less problem for us."

"He's got a point," the teenage doctor agreed; anything to quench his curiosity before his mind went totally numb.

Francis threw his hands in the air. "Fine," he growled in exasperation, "half an hour. No whining about not having a break later though."

Alfred was off the moment he agreed, stretching his legs to take a longer stride and faster pace, sick of the sluggishness of todays journey. He kept his eyes fixed on the radio tower, and checked his Pip-boy for a signal every now and then, but no new channels appeared by the time he reached it. "Come on," he begged it as he circled the wire fence for an entrance. "Give me something interesting to listen to, please." He opened the rusted gate and wandered between the network of transformers. There was a switch; he pulled it down towards the word 'ON'. A few seconds after the generator chugged to life, his radio crackled and tuned into the towers signal.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected; at best, a loop of music or information about the days leading up to the Great War; at worst, static or silence. This was in such a different category that he forgot to feel disappointed and instead was simply puzzled. A harsh, rasping sound, up then down. Breathing. If only he had a way of communicating back he could ask them who they were, _where_ they were. With nothing else to do, he started the walk back.

"Ah, here he is," Arthur snarked between sips from his water bottle. "The valiant explorer. Tell me, Alfred, did you find the lost city of gold?"

He ignored him. "Listen to this," he said, and turned the volume up as far as it would go. The signal wasn't as crisp this far away, littered with static, but the stranger could still be heard. Arthur actually got up, an amused expression creeping onto his face.

"Must be some tunnels nearby," he said. It did little to enlighten the teen.

"Tunnels?" he asked. He was beginning to think Arthur liked the sound of his own voice.

The man nodded and pointed to Francis with his thumb. The ghoul took a few deep breaths, in and out, and replicated the sound.

Alfred looked between them, uneasy. "Ghouls?" he whispered, or rather whimpered.

" _Feral_ ghouls," Francis corrected him. "You know, the sort that've lost their minds and attack you smoothskins on sight, eat your brains. The metro is infested with them."

Arthur gave the young doctor a heavy whack on the shoulder. "Ow!"

" _That's_ why you shouldn't be wandering the metro tunnels alone!" he scolded him. He hit him again. "What were you thinking?"

"I didn't know!"

"And not knowing will get you killed," he snapped. "Don't you get it? You get once chance out here. When I tell you to do something - or not do something - you listen, okay?"

Alfred nodded, and prayed to not be hit again. "Okay."

\---

"Oh thank God," Arthur breathed as they crested the final slope. He clutched his side and dragged his feet the last few yards towards a brahmin caravan that looked set to leave. "I didn't think we'd make it."

"Yo Hoff!" Francis squarked, waving for the caravan owner's attention.

The suited man turned to them and grinned, welcoming them with open arms. "Francis, Arthur! What took you so long? I was getting worried," he smiled, glasses glinting in the afternoon sun. Alfred could smell the harsh chemicals on him.

"Picked up a hitch-hiker," Arthur grunted, and settled on a rock to rest, utterly winded. He gestured to the man. "Alfred, this is Doc Hoff, a good friend and business associate." He opened his mouth to say more but was cut off by a stiff groan of pain, breaths coming fast and short. He rubbed his temples and shuddered.

Francis took his bag. "You rest up Art, I'll handle this," he said, and began piling all sorts of items on the ground and started to haggle. Alfred watched in wonder; he'd used his acquired stash of bottlecaps to purchase supplies in Megaton, but this was the first time he'd seen trading of goods alone. The duo had collected everything from weapons and ammo to scraps of metal and spare batteries. Some of it was arguably useful to them, but the value made the trade worthwhile. He noticed that the ghoul kept any and all food and medicine, though they didn't have much left anyway. Once the full extent of their loot was out on the ground, Hoff picked through it for anything he wanted and presumably anything he could trade with other merchants.

"You look like you're on your way out, Arthur," he observed morbidly as he set aside bits and bobs of value.

"Not yet," the young man ground out, eyes squeezed shut.

"Don't you have a stimpak?"

"Nuka-brains used the last one on himself yesterday morning."

"'Nuka-brains' saved your life," Alfred cut in. "Just be thankful I brought that box of Abraxo instead of that busted missile launcher, or that radscorpion would have eaten you for lunch."

The trader stood up, surprise written across his face as he gawked at Alfred. "Radscorpion? A radscorpion did this to you? And you lived?"

"Just about."

"It's a shame you couldn't get a hold of the poison gland," he mused, "I could have worked on an antidote."

"Oh, you mean this ol' thing?" Alfred asked with an air of smugness, and rattled the small glass jar in which he'd stored the stinger.

The man reached for it, but Alfred snatched his arm back. "Ah, ah, ah! This wasn't an easy catch. Here's the deal: I give you this, and we get free antidote whenever we run into you."

Doc Hoff - if he was even a real doctor - stared back at him. The boy in the vault suit had something he wanted, something he needed for good business. The teen knew his offer was impossible to accept, and worked it to his favour.

"I couldn't possibly promise that," the man sighed, removing his glasses to polish them on his tie. "Half price. Take it or leave it."

Alfred grinned as he stuck out his hand. "Done," he said, and gave him a firm handshake before handing the stinger over.

"I should have the first batch ready by the time I circle back to Megaton. Until then," he turned back to Arthur, "stay out of trouble, hm?"

The injured man scowled and struggled to his feet. "Just give me a stimpak and piss off," he grumbled. Stimpak in hand, he lurched off toward the buildings, Alfred in tow as they left the ghoul to complete the trade.The gunman pulled up short of the Canterbury Common buildings, little more than piles of bricks that hadn't quite managed to collapse yet. He chuckled and pointed out the scene in the street."Looks like the circus is in town again," he said, nodding to the two costumed figures engaged in a stand off.

One of them stood, hands on hips in a power stance, dressed head to toe in bent and welded metal plates. "You'll never get away with terrorising this town," he announced, a Protectron to his left and a Mr Gutsy on his right. "Not while it's under the protection of the Mechanist!"

The second stood across the street, surrounded by giant ants and dressed to match them. "You and your pathetic tin cans are no match for my army!" she retorted, and gave a laugh that reminded Alfred of the sort the bad guys did in the _Grognak the Barbarian_ comics he read as a child.

"The citizens of this town have nothing to fear - the Mechanist is here to protect them!"

"Ha! We'll see about that. Attack, my ant soldiers! Destroy this fool and his tin toys!"

The two loonies stood back as the ants surged forward and the robots fired lasers in all directions. Arthur and Alfred ducked for cover as some beams were shot their way, but the battle was over in seconds with casualties of both robots and all the ants. The hero and the villain fled in opposite directions, leaving the air to clear and the teen to process what had just transpired.

"What the actual hell?" he muttered as he dusted himself off.

Arthur chuckled. "It's a wild wasteland," he said. Alfred wondered what other crazies he'd run into over the years. "Come on, there's a cafeteria in town. I need a drink."

Delicious smells wafted their way as they picked their way over the rubble in the streets. Most of the brick buildings here survived the atomic bombs well enough to provide a wasteland community with sufficient shelter, though many windows were boarded up to keep out the dust and raiders. One had to be careful not to turn an ankle in the cracks in the street, and try not to think about how exposed the settlement was on the bleak landscape, visible for miles around in the northern wastes. But to those who lacked violent intentions, the promise of a hearty meal, a comfortable seat and a stiff drink made Canterbury Commons an oasis in the desert.

Walking into the run-down cafeteria, Alfred drooled as he breathed in the scents of grilled squirrel, molerat steaks and mirelurk cakes cooking on the flat griddle. A few other travellers, probably merchants or scavengers, sat at the bar, windswept and exhausted.

Arthur was yet to take any form of painkiller, but soon remedied that by ordering a whiskey as he eased himself onto a barstool. The man behind the counter offered him a glass, but he waved him off. "Just leave the bottle," he said. Twelve caps down, he set about drinking himself numb. Ravenous, Alfred bought himself a bowl of noodles and tucked into his last box of sailsbury steak, hoping that Francis would remember to buy enough rations for three instead of two.

"So," Alfred enquired, still trying to wrap his head around the two wanderers who's picked him up from D.C., "what is it you guys actually do?"

The older man swallowed a mouthful of whiskey with a grimace. "We're salvagers," he replied. "Whatever raiders steal, we take back and sell."

"Couldn't you just give it back to the people who were robbed?"

He laughed. "We've gotta make a living."

Alfred nodded, thinking it through. "So you're scavengers-"

" _Salvagers_."

"Same thing."

"No it is not!"

"Whatever," he scoffed through a mouthful of noodles. "I was gonna ask, does it pay well?"

Arthur sighed, swilling the golden liquid around in its bottle. "You tell me, kid. I've got no home, no possessions, no savings." His tone drew heavy. "Me and Francis live day-to-day out here. It's no life, but it's what we've got."

They sat in silence. _Moodkiller_ , Alfred chastised himself. After a while, Arthur drained the last of the whiskey down his gullet and slammed and hand on the counter. "Right! Time to grit my teeth and bear it," he barked, brandishing the stimpak and handing it to Alfred. He twisted on the stool to face him. "I'm too drunk to hit the right spot - you do it."

The young doctor pushed himself out of his seat and took the needle. "Alright. Hold still." A vindictive part of him whispered temptations of stabbing the bastard in the stomach, but he didn't have the heart. _Yet_. The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement at the sight of the hardened elder with his eyes tightly shut, armour pulled aside at the site of the wound. He unwound the soiled strips of bandages and jabbed the stimpak into the inflamed flesh, pressing the syringe down. Arthur hissed, then relaxed, almost slipping off his stool.

"Ah, _fuck_ that's better," he murmured as he returned his patchy armour to its place. "Well, I'm gonna catch Francis and find a place to crash. You coming?"

Alfred nodded and left a tip for the waiter before leaving to follow the other man out onto the street.

The ghoul scientist had found a shady corner out of the way and business of the rest of the town; he sat with his back against a scorched wall, lighting a smoke, their bags at his feet. "You took long enough," he squarked. "Feeling better, princess?" he asked Arthur.

"No," he growled, wincing. Stimpaks healed wounds but were far from being an effective anaesthetic.

Francis hummed and rooted around in a satchel. "Good job I got you something stronger then." He threw something to Arthur, who caught it in one hand. Alfred squinted through his dirtied glasses at the object; it was small, fitted to a grown mans palm, and cylindrical in shape. The gunman's expression was strange as he looked at it, part caution, part desire.

"W-What is that?" he asked, pointing to the grey tube in Arthur's hand. He had an idea, but didn't want to jump to conclusions.

The other man glanced at him, as if he'd forgotten he was there. He chuckled. "Want to try it?" he asked back, completely ignoring the question.

"What is it?" he repeated.

"You'll like it. Trust me."

He wasn't getting anywhere fast. After some cajoling and guilt-tripping over how he should be able to trust his team-mates, Arthur convinced him to take a puff of whatever it was.

"Hold it in," he instructed, like a proud parent coaching their child in preparation for their first vault baseball game. The gas _burned_ as he held it in his lungs; his throat was on fire and his blood bubbled. He didn't know the exact contents of the cannister, and he wasn't certain he wanted to find out either.

Eventually he had to let his breath out. Stars and stripes danced rainbows in front of his eyes, the ground sounded red, the suns cold glare bit at his face and fingertips. Everything was wrong, yet it was okay. Nice. Good, even. He was laughing; it didn't matter what at, but he was laughing. He was happy. The was of colours and fun continued for hours, then all at once, everything was dark and dull. He was burning up like a hydrogen bomb but couldn't stop the shivers that wracked his body. Burnt hands reached for him; he tried to run away but tripped and fell up to the ground. He couldn't let the monsters get him, he had to find dad. Had to find mom - no, mom was dead, wasn't she? _I'm sorry mom, I'm sorry-_

He came to his senses with a strangled gasp, thrashing around as someone pinned him on his back, the last of the drug evaporated from his mind. Breathless and sweating, he looked around to catch his bearings. Francis had a hold of his wrists and was telling him to take it easy; Arthur was off somewhere out of sight laughing his ass off. "You okay kid?" the ghoul asked as he pulled him by the shoulders into a sitting position. The words reverberated in Alfred's head like a drum beat. He retched. The sun, now back to its usual baking heat, was cooking his skull and his brains with it. He reluctantly drank from the bottle of dirty water handed to him, hoping it would ease the urge to vomit rather than encourage it. He ended up drinking the whole thing.

Finally regaining his breath and control over his limbs, Alfred spat at Arthur, "What the hell did you give me?"

"It's called 'jet'," came the nonchalant answer. Arthur stood in the shade, not bothering to hide his amusement as he smoked. "Makes life just about worth living."

Alfred collapsed back into the dirt. Just over a week out here and he'd already killed people and taken chems. Shame cloaked his thoughts; his father would be so disappointed if he knew. What was he doing? He needed to find his dad, not parade around the wasteland like an excitable child let loose for the first time. But he watched as Arthur eased himself back to the ground, still clutching his side, and knew that if a single radscorpion could do that to the toughest bastard he'd met thus far, he didn't have a chance against the super mutants.

As his two companions settled down to enjoy their high, the teen dragged himself off to one of the more complete buildings in the hopes of finding a mattress to sleep on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quite a long one, only because everything seemed to fit together. Thanks for the comments, kudos and bookmarks - in the excitement over the Fallout 4 trailer I forgot to mention that in the last chapters comments, so apologies!  
> Also: SUPER hyped about Fallout 4 at E3, omg. I lay in bed sobbing while watching the game footage, mainly because I probably won't be able to play/own this game since I'm starting university in September :[ But I'll live I guess.  
> Thanks for reading! xxx


	4. The Good Fight

"Woah, woah, woah, hold up," Arthur hushed, holding out an arm to stop Alfred in his tracks. "Up ahead, on that hill. You see 'em?" The vault dweller craned his neck to get a better view of the ridge, most of it obscured by the wire fence surrounding the rusted water tower on its crest. He could hear voices, gruff orders barked to and fro. Footsteps trudged and metal clanked, shotgun barrels waved in the air.

They'd spent another day in Canterbury Commons simply resting, spending a few caps on food and drink at the cafeteria rather than eating into their supplies. At first light this morning they headed out, going north in search of raider camps to pilage. He felt fresh after two nights sleep on an actual bed instead of the hard ground, but his companions seemed happy enough to spend the night in the street despite there being beds available to weary travellers. Now, after a few hours of walking and no sign of supplies to scaven- _salvage_ , they'd walked into trouble.

"Slavers," Francis growled, and hunkered down behind a rock. His laser pistol was already loaded; Arthur was the same, his conventional pistol in hand. He untwisted the silencer.

"So, uh," Alfred swallowed, crouched down next to the other man, "how're we gonna give 'em the slip?"

"The only 'slip' will be a noose around their necks," Arthur snarled. "Bastards." He took off the safety.

The teenager's stomach knotted; for a couple of guys who tried to stay alive, this was clearly suicidal. Before he could protest however, Arthur and Francis burst from cover and blanketed the slaver band with shots, leaving him in the settling dust. After half a minute of relentless gunfire exchange, he bit his lip and joined the fray. One of the slavers was already dead, bleeding out in the irradiated dirt, and another had abandoned her catch and fled. Two remained, each with a slave as a human shield. The ghoul and survivalist's shots became stalled, reluctant, as they took great care not to hit the slaves. Before he fired a single bullet, Alfred knew he'd have to rely on V.A.T.S. again.

A snapshot evaluation of the scene helped him take aim at the the two slavers arms, where they held their captives. In a second the shots were taken; as he re-orintated himself he tried to absorb was what happening. Their enemies cried out, struck, and must have let their imprompteau shields free, for a stream of laser fire and bullets exploded from Arthur and Francis' weapons. By the time Alfred had his senses back, the two slavers were torn up on the ground, more holes than bodies.

Instead of setting to work looting, Arthur slowly approached the two slaves, crouched and cowering a few feet away. "You two alright? Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay."

One of them, a woman, stood shakily. "C-Can you get it off?" she asked, and pointed to her neck. A thick ring of metal encompassed it, and what looked like lights and sensors dotted its surface . It must have been tight, and horribly uncomfortable, but the woman seemed hesitant to so much as touch it, let alone pry it off on her own.

Arthur looked back over to Francis, expression grim. The robotics expert walked over, equally quiet, equally troubled. "I'd say it's a fifty-fifty shot," he warned them.

The second slave joined her side. "We can't spend the rest of our lives with them on. And when Paradise Falls realise we never arrived for the trade- Please! Just try!"

Alfred moved to join the group, wanting to know more, but Arthur held him back. "This could turn ugly," the older guy said quietly. "Best keep your distance."

They watched as the ghoul circled to the woman's back, pushed her matted hair aside, and examined the collar. It seemed to take an age, and the tense gunman at Alfred's side didn't help ease his nerves. There was something they weren't telling him. After a few minutes of careful tinkering, there was a click; Arthur flinched so violently that the teen's hand went straight to his holster. The collar snapped open and Francis gingerly tossed it away into the scrub of bushes.

The woman's hands flew to her neck, feeling the sore skin and drinking in the air. "Oh God, I'm free," she sobbed. Arthur beckoned her over and gave her a bottle of water; it was no dirty pond water, it was purified, an expensive and scarse resource. Alfred found the gesture odd coming from the gunman.

"Me too," the male slave begged, turning around for Francis to work his magic.

He repeated the proccess, never hurrying. "Keep still," he reminded his patient once or twice.

Suddenly there was another click, though this time it was joined by a high-pitched whirr, like a switch being flipped. Arthur choked on a gasp, eyes wide and body rigid. He knew.

"Is- Is it supposed to vibrate like that?" the slave asked with a nervous glance, before the collar exploded and took his head with it.

Alfred wasn't certain who was screaming; probably him, but the woman was hysterical. Francis had backed away the moment the signature click sounded, but not far enough to avoid being spattered with blood and brains; he looked like the perfect pre-war zombie, except for the shock and remorse painted so painfully clear on his chapped face. Darkness pulsated at the edges of Alfred's vision; he felt himself crumple to the ground, unable to stop it, still crying out. Arthur was a little way off, trying to calm the poor woman after her rollercoaster of joy and horror these last few minutes. It took him a few seconds to notice the teen laying on the ground, shaking from the sobs that escaped him. He couldn't breathe. Between the screaming and the crying and the crippling shock, he couldn't get air into his lungs, only expell it.

Arthur sat him up. "Hey, c'mon, don't black out on me Alfred. Just breathe, okay?" he said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"He just- H-He-"

"Don't try to talk. Breathe."

The boy took a deep breath and let it out, albeit with more tears. "Why? Why would someone _do that_ to another person?" he shrieked, gripping at his head as if he was trying to keep it attached to his neck.

"Incentive. You're not going to aruge with someone who can detonate the bomb collar locked around your neck."

_"Fuck!"_

"It was quick, Alfred," Arthur said firmly, grasping him by the shoulders, ready to shake him if need be. "It was quick and a hell of a lot kinder than a life in slavery. If you have a chance to get that collar off, you'll take it, no matter the odds. Believe me."

It took several minutes for his hands to stop shaking, for the image of the slave's head blowing apart in all directions to stop repeating in his mind. Francis had cleaned himself up as best he could, his tattered old lab coat speckled with pink stains. Arthur was hugging - hugging! - the poor woman and telling her about a place, a save haven. "They can help you more than we can. They've got food, water, even proper clothes, and they'll help you get home. But we've got to get going, it's a few hours walk from here, alright?"

She just nodded, wiping at her sodden cheeks.

The journey was uneventful, and everyone was quiet. It gave Alfred time to think over what he'd learnt about his compansions. They claimed to have no interests beyond attacking raider camps and making their fortune, but their act of heroism held no material gain. Slaves were stipped of their identity and possessions, put in rags and fitted into a bomb collar. Even if they maged to escape they had to rebuild their lives from nothing; they had no way of repaying the debt, even if the duo wanted such a thing. They did it out of the goodness of their hearts, something Alfred wasn't quite willing to believe; he was new out here, but not completely naive.

Eventually they were following a road. Arthur pointed out a building in the distance. "There," he said, "that's where we're headed. The Temple of the Union."

Alfred waited patiently for the building to grow closer. These past few days of walking were already hardening his feet and joints to the endless travelling; his stomach, on the other hand, wasn't coping too well with only one meal a day. He was amazed by could even think about food after what he'd witnessed. By the time they reached the metal games, he was done-in.

"Halt!" a voice ordered from above. He searched the gaps between the concrete and saw a woman armed with a rifle.

"Relax, Simone," Francis sighed, "it's only us."

"You two I know, but these?" she replied, pointing at Alfred and the slave with her weapon.

"We've got a refugee and a new business partner. Now are you gonna let us in or do I have to call for Hannibal?" Arthur called up to her, arms crossed.

Muttering, she disappeared behind the shattered concrete and reappeared a moment later on the other side of the gate, brandishing a set of keys. "No funny business," she warned the teen as he entered the compound with the group. "I'm watching you." He found himself a little offended; he was perfectly trustworthy! He needed glasses to see properly, how was he supposed to survive as a raider?

A couple of brahmin rested on the ground floor, their food trough empty. The pre-war building had been gutted out, precarious columns barely holding the upper floors the only decoration. A set of stairs in the corner wound up to the next level; the sound of dried concrete crumbling away as they scaled them was far from reassuring. The first floor was much more alive though, despite its small population. Tables encircled by chairs, a beaten old jukebox, lockers and refrigerators filled the shell of stone and steel, everything one would need to live in reasonable comfort out here. But nearly everyone carried a gun, not in a holster or on their back, but in their hands. His companions paid no heed though, and threw open their arms for a hug from a man standing before them. His dark face was worn from years of stuggle, but his eyes shone with purpose. "Arthur, Francis, good to see you again," the man, presumably Hannibal who Arthur mentioned before, said to them as he returned the hug, patting him on the back with a rare familiarity. "And who do we have here?"

"Our new protoge," the ghoul replied, dragging Alfred over for his introduction.

Alfred offered his hand, feeling out of place among all these personal gestures. "I'm Alfred," he said, somewhat quiet compared to his usual self. He watched as Hannibal's eyes shifted to the gunman; when Arthur nodded, he smiled and took his hand.

"My name is Hannibal. Welcome to the Temple of the Union, brother," he said. "Here we fight for the common good."

"And that common good is?" the young doctor asked. He hated to be rude, but no one had actually told him what all this was about.

"We are all escaped slaves," the man explained, "and are trying to make a safe haven for all other runaways. We give food and supplies to any who find us, and help them on their way. Your friends here-" He cut off mid-sentence. "Ah, well, they help our cause through donations. Ammunition, medicine, even spare clothing. Not to mention by bringing lost souls to our gates." Alfred looked back over his shoulder to the young woman, who had been seated at a table and quietly talking with the other members of the Temple of the Union. A hot meal and a drink were placed in front of her, as well as a pair of shoes for her bloodied feet.

"You're free to stay as long as you need, provided you've got your own supplies. Our home is your home."

"Thanks Hannibal," Arthur said. "We were planning on heading north for some raider hunting, but obviously we had to take a detour. We'll head back out in the morning."

They were able to use the fire to warm up a couple of cans of pork'n'beans, and spent the evening chatting with the other folks in the Temple. Francis and Arthur had a lot of old friends to catch up with; Alfred entertained himself by playing with the resident dog, Four Score. Now, lucky enough to sleep on a matress for a third night in a row, he lay by the dying fire for warmth as the night sucked the heat from his blood. Arthur lay next to him on his own bed, eyes closed. He hoped the survivalist was comfortable enough to answer his questions honestly.

"Arthur," he murmured, pretty sure he wasn't awake.

The other man frowned, eyes still closed. "Hm?"

"Were you a slave?"

Green eyes snapped open, gaze shaky in surprise. So he was right; it had been nothing more than an educated guess, clued by both his ferocious hatred of slavers and familiarity to Hannibal and his associates. You didn't just charge in head on against several armed opponents, no matter how good your morals, without a personal vendetta.

"You're smart, I'll give you that," Arthur whispered, rolling over to put his back to him.

Alfred poked at the holes in his matress, avoiding the centuries old stains. "I'm sorry," he said, "I just wanted to know for sure."

"If I wanted you to know, I'd have told you."

"You trust me enough to bring me here, why not enough to tell me?"

"Because you're not entitled to my life story, kid."

The younger man sighed and turned over too. He watched the embers burn out in the ash of the campfire, leaving them in darkness save for the carpet of stars across the endless sky, the moon hidden beyond the horizon. "Does Francis know?" he eventually asked, unsure if he'd receive a reply.

He heard a chuckle. "Know? He was there with me. Hell, he was a slave much longer than I was."

"And you never talk about it?"

Silence settled on them for a moment, then ever so faintly, "I want to forget."

\---

"What are you doing?"

Alfred looked up from the drawstring purse he'd been searching through. "Oh, hey Art." He returned to picking out bottlecaps without answering the question; being the charming young man that he was, he'd managed to haggle the sniper rifle and matching ammo down to a lower than usual price.

"'Art'?" the trader jeered from his spot across from Alfred, the weapon laid out on the ground between them as they sat on overturned buckets. "New nickname?"

"It's Arthur, Harith. You know that," the gunman chastised. "And you-" He rounded on the teen. "-answer my fucking question! Why are you buying a sniper rifle?"  
"It's a present," he smiled innocently, the sort of smile he used on Old Lady Palmer when he wanted a sweetroll back in the vault. "A present for you."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "What?" he demanded, exasperated.

Alfred passed over the caps to the man across from him. "I'm treating you! You're the best shot I know."

"You know like four people, idiot!"

Lucky Harith, arms dealer and ammunition supplier to the Wasteland, took the caps readily and shook his hand. "It's a done deal, sir," he said, handing over the gun and two boxes of rounds.

"Did you hear that, Art? I'm a 'sir' apparently," Alfred grinned. He held the weapon out to him; it had cost him a small fortune, seeing as it was in relatively good condition. "Do you like it?"

Arthur lifted it from his hands as if holding a newborn babe. "I- Uh- I'm sorry, what?" he stuttered, still unable to grasp the situation. The teen watched his face work through the fact that he'd spent more than three-hundred caps on a single weapon, instead of saving it for something important like water. Alfred knew he'd be mad, but if Arthur and Francis were going to so much as listen to his plan, he had to tempt them with something irresistible; and that something required a sniper rifle.

"I'm sorry, what?" he repeated, angrier this time. "You're expecting me to haul this bloody big gun across the wasteland when I could be carrying, oh I don't know, bottles of water or tins of food? Argh!" He spun away - still carrying the rifle, mind you - and stomped back towards the Temple of the Union.

Alfred called after him, "That's not the real present." Arthur stopped in his tracks. He waited to see if the gunman would turn around, but he remained facing away, though perfectly still. He strode after him, voice level. "The real present, is that you get to help take down Paradise Falls."

Arthur was only a few feet away from him now, and turned, expression unreadable. The way he pursed his lips said, _You're crazy_ , but his alert, expectant gaze said, _Really? You promise?_ He sighed irritably, and put a hand on his hip. "You have a plan, I hope," he said.

The young doctor smiled. "Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly short, but the next one is so big I've had to cut it in half! We're finally getting to the bottom of Arthur's grouchiness. ;)  
> Thanks for the support on this guys! I'm trying to get the second half of the next chapter finished and out of my head, then I should be able to make some headway on 'Worth It'. xxx


	5. Welcome to Paradise

After confirming Arthur's history, Alfred had got up early the next morning to talk with Hannibal; he wanted to know about the slavers, where they were based, how they operated. The Union had more than enough information to give him from all the fellow slaves they'd assisted over the years. He told him about Paradise Falls, the trading hub for slavers. They attacked settlements all over the Wasteland and brought in any survivors they could catch, bomb collars already fitted, and were paid for their services; there they were assessed for a price and sold to whoever came sniffing. Eulogy Jones - no relation, or at least Alfred hoped - was the mastermind currently running the place, and had every slaver working as his personal guard dog. This wouldn't be a gunfight, and they couldn't just bomb the place since he wanted to liberate as many slaves as possible.

He was going to have to give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle.

Hannibal lent him a pre-war buisness suit in good faith, and a matching hat. All he had to do now was convince Francis.

"Absolutely not," the ghoul said, tone heavy and firm. "I'm not going anywhere near that place."

"Francis," Arthur said gently. "We can put an end to this." He really, really wanted to use that sniper rifle if he was agreeing with Alfred for once.

The ghoul stood fast though. "I spent thirty years as a slave. You were in that cage for a couple of months at the most, I wound up in that place every other year. If they see us-"

"They won't! We'll be hiding in the hills! Alfred's the one going in, they don't know his face."

"No."

"Please!"

"No! I'm not risking my freedom just because you want revenge for-" The scientist cut himself off when Arthur took a sharp intake of breath, expression suddenly steely and painful.

With the duo now quiet, Alfred had a chance to speak. Clearing his throat, he reasoned, "Francis, this plan won't work without you. We need someone who's capable of removing bomb collars. Now I can't force you to come, but if you don't I'll have to find another way to do it... or abandon the captives altogether."

Francis rubbed a hand down his face, some of the dry skin flaking off. "I really don't want to do this," he sighed, "but I will. For Arthur, not you. You're going to get us fucking killed."

\---

They took the road to the north and followed it as it curved to the west, avoiding the northern bank of the Potomac river and reports of Super Mutants from the caravans that recently passed through. Despite his initial complaints, Arthur carried the sniper rifle across his back without any problems. He took out a molerat half a mile away when they stopped for a lunch break, just to 'test it out'. The thing worked perfectly well and he damn well knew it; he just wanted an excuse to play with his new toy. When Alfred offered to carry it for a bit he scowled, dare he say pouted, and refused. The journey was thankfully uneventful, although Francis grew edgier by the minute the closer they came to Paradise Falls, certain they would run into slavers.

Even Arthur grew cautious eventually. He walked with his map out, trying to pinpoint their location both to keep a safe distance from Paradise Falls and to find a suitable hiding place for him and his ghoul friend. They hovered around the hills that encompassed the slaver base, leaving the ruined roads to hike over sloped terrain. They set up camp in a suitable spot, out of the worse of the wind and tucked away behind a large rock formation lest anyone swing a pair of binoculars their way.

Alfred hid around the corner of it to change into the pre-war suit. It was grubby to say the least, but smarter than most things out here. It wasn't the best fit either; the pants were too short and the buttons strained as the shirt was pulled tight across his chest, but it would do. He stepped back into view of the others. "What do you think?"

Francis popped a smoke in his mouth to prevent himself from laughing, the ridge where his eyebrows used to be raising in amusement. Arthur just gave in and laughed, nose scrunching up from his grin. "Yeah, they're not gonna fall for that," he snorted.

The teen pulled out the bag of caps from his pocket. It was full. "But they'll fall for this, right?"

They stopped snickering and stared. "Where did you get all those caps?" Francis asked, and jabbed a thumb at Arthur's rifle. "I thought you spent every penny on that thing?"

"Magic," Alfred replied.

The look of amusement on the gunman's face faded to one of threat. "Alfred, where did you get the caps?" he demanded, repeating the ghouls question in a raised growl.

The young doctor smiled his most convincing smile and took a few steps backward. "I, uh, might have, just maybe, sold some... stimpaks?"

"How many?"

"...All of them," he admitted quietly.

Arthur launched himself at him.

"You fucking idiot! I'll kill you myself!" he screeched, chasing him around their temporary camp. "What were you thinking?" He unholstered his pistol and shot bullet after bullet at Alfred's feet.

"Oh God, don't shoot me, please" he begged; maybe it hadn't been the best plan to auction off their medical supplies, especially now that he was going to need them.

Francis chuckled darkly. "Oh I wouldn't worry. If he was gonna kill you, you'd already be dead."

While he was distracted by the ghoul, Arthur took the opportunity to land a punch in his stomach. He dropped to his knees with a groan, his lungs desperately trying to recapture the air that escaped. Arthur grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head up to face his, inches apart. "I want to hear two words from you," he snarled.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry," Alfred panted, still winded.

Arthur hooked a fist and shook his head. "Wrong," he said.

Alfred's eyes were pinned on the hand that would soon come colliding with his face. "I'm sorry!" he repeated, louder.

"I don't want to hit you, Alfred, so don't make me do it."

"What do you want me to say?" he shouted, and shoved the older man off him. The hand tugged at his hair but let go, only for the other to strike him at a glance across the jaw.

"I've been wanting to do that all week," Arthur admitted. He picked him off the ground again. "Two words. You know you want to."

Massaging his jaw, Alfred glared up at him through his scratched glasses. "Fuck you."

Arthur's face split into a grin. "There," he said, "was that so hard?" He walked away, reloading his pistol lest some critters find their camp. "You're about to walk into hell, kid. Don't get me wrong, D.C. is far more dangerous, it'll get you killed. But if they don't respect you either as a client, or one of the lads, you'll have a collar round your neck before you can say 'BlamCo Mac and Cheese'. So for everyone's sake, you'd better toughen up fast." He turned around. "But we're still pissed off about the stimpaks."

Alfred pushed himself to his feet. His face throbbed where Arthur hit him, and the adrenaline still pumped through his system, but otherwise he was fine. "Look, from what you guys told me, if they start firing on us there won't be enough stimpaks in the world. We shouldn't need them anyway and besides, I needed more caps otherwise they won't believe that I'm some rich business dude."

"What's your name?" Francis asked, releasing a puff of smoke.

"Wh-"

"What's your business? Where you from? Why d'you need slaves? They're going to ask, so you'd better have answers ready."

Arthur stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the rockface. "He can say he's from Richman, south of here," he suggested. "Got a place at Tenpenny Tower while he sets up a new branch of his caravan company. What do you know loads about?"

Alfred shrugged, the suit straining over his shoulders. "Medicine, I guess."

"Perfect! You're after slaves for chem testing at your facility, perhaps some females for breeding stock."

The teen looked between them, horror painted across his face. They were kidding, right? People didn't actually do that, no way. But they were serious; human beings were traded as commodities, cattle. He thought back to the woman they rescued the previous day, and shuddered at the thought of what she would have been used for. Francis and Arthur worked with caravans, which sounded a hell of a lot better than being a lab rat or a plaything, but they knew first had that death was preferable to a life of slavery. He glanced at the ghoul. He'd been a slave for thirty years, a lifetime; what had he been made to do? What jobs were so foul and dangerous that a slave master wouldn't waste a human on, and send in a ghoul instead?

"What the hell am I about the see in there?" he asked solemnly.

Arthur pushed off the rock and crouched to the ground, drawing out lines in the dirt. "You'll be brought in through the only entrance. They make it a weaved pattern so they've got longer to shoot down any runaways. There's a bar area in the middle, and Eulogy Jones' office on the left. Past that is a guarded area with the enclosures, and The Box." He pulled his hand from the ground, frowning as he thought over the details. "Make sure no one's left in The Box when you bust everyone out of there. It's horrible."

"What is it?"

"Before the war," Francis explained, "there was a lot of paranoia floating around. Nobody wanted to die in a thermonuclear war, and a guy called Pulowski saw an opportunity to make some money outa' folk. They built these shelters, big enough for one person, or two if they squeezed together, all over the place. Coin operated mini-vaults, with no food, water or protection from radiation. They usually contain skeletons but this one's had it's interior lights stripped out and a lock fitted. You misbehave, and you're in The Box. Hell, come to think of it I was put in that thing for shits and giggles more than once."

"You can barely move," Arthur said, "and it's so dark. There's nothing to do and you feel yourself losing your mind, and if you bang on the door and beg to be let out the place just gets smaller and smaller-" He stopped, shaking his head, hands over his ears. "I was on my best behaviour after that."

Alfred nodded. He had nothing to say about it. "How am I going to get everyone out of there?"

The ghoul muttered something in French and bit down on his cigarette. Arthur looked up at him. "I thought you had a plan?"

"I do! Walk in, free the slaves, walk out."

Francis' muttering increased in pitch, volume and speed.

Arthur snapped at him to shut up; he wasn't helping. "You're going to have to sneak into Eulogy's quarters and hack his computer," he told the teen. "Think you're up to it?"

"It's not the hacking I'm worried about," he replied. "It's the sneaking part."

"That's your problem. But Eulogy is bound to have some sort of remote control system for the bomb collars, you just need to deactivate it then do a runner before they can gun you down."

Alfred snapped his fingers and pointed at him. "And that's where you come in," he said. "Before I head down there I need to know you've got a good sniping spot. If you can take out some of the slavers, or hell, all of them if you can, it'll help us get out of there alive."

Arthur remained quiet for a moment, studying the layout of the mountain around them. "Hundred caps says I can take 'em all out," he boasted.

The youngest of the three grinned back at him. "Hundred caps says you can't."

Arthur raised his brow at the comment. "You're betting against your own life?"

"Then prove me wrong. Make my job easier."

\---

As soon as they sun rose he took the long route to the slaver base, clambering round the back of the hills and circling to the south to approach from the complete opposite direction. On the way he psyched himself up as best he could; it dawned on him that while he was being heroic, he was being incredibly stupid. But every day was life or death in the Wasteland, so he might as well put it to good use.

Arthur had given him his pistol silencer, which he attached to his own gun, carried on his hip. "In case someone catches you doing something you shouldn't," he'd explained. Plus he felt a bit more confident walking around with a weapon. Though, by the looks of the man stationed at the entrance, one piddly little 10mm pistol wasn't going to make a difference.

Before he could remove his hat like a gentleman and bid the man good morning, he called out, gun in hand and ready to shoot. "Hold it right there! Nobody's allowed in Paradise Falls except on slaver business, and I get to decide what qualifies as slaver business."

"Is that how you treat all your prospective clients?" Alfred replied cheerily. His heart was already pouding; he hoped the stanger couldn't hear it.

"Client? You got an appointment with the boss?"

"Well, no, it's rather hard to do that if this is your first time at Paradise Falls."

The man scowled in confusion at him. "What?"

Taking a breath, he removed his hat as planned - playing up the civilised gentleman act - and smiled. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Al- bert Frederick, CEO of Frederick and Frederick's, primary medical chem manufacturer to the good people of Richman. I'm here on business. I need slaves."

The man leaned back in his chair. "You got caps?" he asked. Alfred tossed the purse onto his table and let him empty it, weighing up the contents with his eyes. "Ha, I'm afraid this ain't anywhere near enough for our stock," he smirked, scooping them back into the bag and throwing it back.

Alfred returned his hat to his head and replied, "Well I can only assume that's because I'm paying for quality. What's the point in buying slaves when they're just going to drop dead on the way home? I've had that happen before, hence why I made the journey. 'Paradise Falls' they told me, 'that's where you want to go!'"

"So, you walked all the way from Richman just to buy a slave?" the slaver questioned him; his story wasn't holding.

"Slaves, plural," he politely corrected him, "and no of course not. I'm staying at Tenpenny Tower while my employees set up our new branch here in the D.C. wasteland. We're expanding so, naturally, we need a new set of slaves to test our products on."

The man chewed his lip for a moment. He seemed to have gotten away with it, as he wasn't telling him to get out of here or pulling the trigger on him. Of course they wanted business, and he was hoping they would make him an offer for entry. "All your yapping is giving me a headache," he mumbled. Then he settled back in his chair, talking straight with him. "Maybe I have something you can do for me. I've got a list of VIPs that need bringing in. You bring me one of them, and not only will I let you in, I'll split the commission with you. That should leave you with enough caps to put down a deposit."

Alfred didn't answer. His mind was frozen with the fact that he'd have to go out there and collar someone. This wan't part of the plan; this was the exact opposite of the plan. "Certainly," he said. "But how am I supposed to convince them to come with me? I'm a breeder, not a wrangler."

"I'm glad you asked," he replied, slapping his thighs and standing up. "I got this mesmetron thing. It's some kind of stun gun. I want you to test it out for me, a little research project." He passed him a fancy-looking but beaten up gun, probably from before the Great War, and a bomb collar. "You take this mezzer. Shoot it at some poor schmuck. While he's in la-la land, you slip one of these collars over his head. Be careful with that collar. It'll explode if you tinker with it. Tell the slave to boot it over here pronto, or his head'll pop. And don't go firing the mezzer at 'im while he's wearing the collar, you'll detonate it. You got all that?"

\---

Francis was so shocked to see him back that his cigarette fell out his mouth. "You're alive?" he mused. "Would you look at that."

"They didn't let you in?" Arthur asked. He didn't seem surprised.

Alfred let out a weary sigh and collapsed against the rocks. "Not exactly," he said. He chewed a nail, then realised how much grime was stuck underneath it and spat it out. "They want me to bring in a slave."

His companions did a double take. He didn't look at them. "No," he heard Arthur say, a hint of panic spicing his voice. "No, no way, I'm not going in there, and neither's Francis."

"Relax," Alfred said, waving him down. "They don't just wan't anyone. The guy at the gate gave me a list, told me to bring in one of them for entry and some caps, because apparently I still don't have enough." He brought up the list on his Pip-boy. "Now two of them are too far away - Rivet City and Tenpenny Tower - but the other's aren't far from here. We've just gotta decide on one."

"We?" the ghoul snarled. "Me and Arthur are not having anything to do with this."

"What, you're objecting on moral grounds?" he scoffed, jumping to his feet. "After you attack people and sell goods back to those who were robbed? Don't give me that shit, you're no angel."

They both looked to Arthur to see who's side he'd pick. "Who's nearby?" he asked quietly.

Alfred checked the list. "Arkansas, in Minefield, and Red from Big Town, to the south."

"Take Arkansas," he replied quickly. "Leave Big Town alone."

He didn't ask; it didn't matter, he had his target. "Alright, so let's head west to Minefield then."

The gunman shook his head. "No. You're on your own on this one, Alfred."

"I need help."

Arthur rounded on him, pushing him up against the rockface by the arms. "Well you're not getting it! You have no idea what it's like, to know that someone could blow your head off for the littlest thing, or just for fun. What it's like to be worth less than brahmin shit, to choke on your food as you swallow it down because the collar's too damn tight. To be put on show and sold to the highest bidder. To walk all day without food or rest, and only enough water to keep you alive." He narrowed his eyes, pressing down harder. "And you're about to do that to another human being. How does it feel?"

"Horrible," he answered quietly. Arthur's grip slackened. "I don't want to do this, Art. If I knew this was the price then I wouldn't have bothered. But we can't just walk away now, not when we have a chance."

Arthur stood with his back to him. "Then go."

\---

He'd been warned about Minefield. Well, not so much as warned, as heckled to explore the place. During his first few days outside Vault 101, when he aimlessly wandered around Megaton without a clue where his father ran off to, he was somehow persuaded to help Moira Brown out with her book, 'The Wasteland Survival Guide'. She asked him to search an old Super Duper Mart for food and medicine, get irradiated, and bring her a fragmine from the notorious ghost town. He'd freaked at the idea of a town filled with apparitions, but the shopkeeper assured him that the place was deserted. Nevertheless he'd resigned to never set foot in the place, until now.

He wasn't in the mood to deal with a town full of landmines, especially now that he knew there was a lone resident he didn't want to scare away his one good chance of getting into Paradise Falls. He'd loaded the mesmatron, ready to pounce as soon as he had a clear shot, but that meant he had to get closer. He circled around the town, keeping low on the cliffs behind the derelict factory where Arkansas camped. His jaw ached where Arthur stuck him earlier in the day, no doubt bruised. He rubbed at his chin as he watched for movement. He caught a glimpse of him standing about, sniper rifle in hand, watching the road through Minefield. Once the elderly man had his back turned, Alfred surged forward as quietly as he could, and climbed down the slope and onto the ground level of the building, it's walls torn open centuries ago. He was so busy looking overhead for signs of movement, that he almost missed the mine by his foot beeping to life.

He leapt to the side, escaping the worst of the blast. The man two floors above him said something; he'd blown his cover. "Fuck it," he growled to himself, and sprinted over the rubble to the stairs, clearing the perimeter of the explosions before they could catch him. He grabbed the stun gun from the holster. At the top of the stairwell he came face to face with his target, or rather his target's gun. Fortunately for him, a sniper rifle wasn't much use at close range, because before Arkansas could take aim, he'd closed to gap to a couple of feet, raised the mesmetron, and fired.

He didn't know what to expect; the slaver hadn't told him. Arkansas dropped his weapon and stood stock still, arms by his side. The doctor approached him carefully; he didn't want him springing another weapon on him. "Empty your pockets," he ordered.

"Okay," the man replied, voice dull with total obedience. He pulled a mixture of bullets, caps and junk from his pockets and handed them over.

Alfred wasted no time and fitted the collar, unsure how long he'd have before he regained free will. A few seconds later the mist in the man's eyes cleared, and he looked around in confusion. "What the-" His fingers stroked at his neck; when they brushed cold steel he stared wildly at his enslaver. "No. No."

"Yes," Alfred replied. "You know where Paradise Falls is. Get going, and tell them Albert sent you."

"You can't do this."

He couldn't afford to waste time. "I _can_ do this," he reminded him, "and I can also set that collar to blow, so don't argue. Get your ass moving."

The man didn't wait another second before he darted off, stumbling down the stairs and out of the ruins. Alfred didn't follow; he had work to do. He quickly scavenged what he could from the camp, including the sniper rifle, and followed his trail back to the camp on the mountainside.

  
\---

He approached the gates of Paradise Falls with new-found confidence, the goal clear in his mind and the finer details of the plan tweaked neatly between the three of them. His brief stop-off at the camp was tense, the two ex-slaves reluctant to aide him now he'd proven what he was capable of doing. They had no other advice to offer; he hoped they weren't withholding anything out of spite, but even so he was as ready as he could be. So, with a suitable signal agreed between them, he set back out and walked straight into the jaws of hell.

The guard finally introduced himself as Grouse, and grudgingly praised him for his work. "That's one more dumb bastard off the list. I honestly didn't think you had what it takes," he said as he led him inside, "but that's me taught."

Alfred stupidly thought the hard part was over. Oh no, the real lies, the real struggle, started now. Even as they meandered through the maze of the entrance, a couple of escaped slaves fled past them. He turned to watch them go, amazed they'd made it out without help after what he'd heard, when they were gunned down. Another slaver passed them by to collect the unexploded collars; they could be reused after all. Grouse took one and gave it to him, in case he felt like earning some more caps in the future.

Alfred swallowed down the fear as he moved further into the lions den. Grouse lead him through the doors of a pre-war bus an into the complex. The first thing to assault him was the stench; burning solder, decaying food, and festering pens battled for the attention of his nose, each attempting to be more foul than the last. The repeated clang of a hammer against metal echoed from one of the buildings; they had their own shop for weapons and armour. Rowdy laughter and singing drifted over from the bar area, where shards of glass from broken bottles littered the ground. Odd decorations dotted the place; mannequins pulled from pre-war buildings all dressed up and dismembered, some with vulgar words and body parts drawn on; old posters and billboards stuck to the makeshift walls to add a splash of colour alongside bloodstains. It could have been the perfect little fortress town, if not for the glimpses of human suffering from the far end of the compound. While he'd recently collared someone himself, nothing compared to the shock of seeing other people locked behind a wire fence in a muddy enclosure, dressed in rags, looking even more starved than their masters.

"Careful over there," Grouse teased him, and gave him a shove towards the bar, "they're not as friendly as I am. Have a nice day."

He edged closer to the common area. There were three slavers and none of them seemed particularly welcoming. A young man sat at a table in an impressive set of metal armour, not saying much between bottles of beer. An older guy in similar attire stood near by, scowling at him as he approached; when a slave handed him a drink he raved about it being watered down, and proceeded to bludgeon him to death with his sledgehammer. The third slaver, a woman in layers of spiked leather, cheered at the scene. The junior medic imagined he looked awfully pale by the time he reached them. "You lost, small fry?" the man said gruffly, and spat in the mud.

"I'm here to see Eulogy Jones," Alfred answered, careful not to stammer or whimper. The woman was eyeing him like a piece of meat, and he edged away as subtly as possible.

The young man frowned and looked him over. "You're not slaver," he said.

Alfred straightened out his suit the best he could and cleared his throat. "I'm a chem producer, but I need slaves to test them on. Can't go killing my customers now, can I ?" He glanced at the body of the bartender, broken and twisted on the ground, his forehead smashed in. _One wrong word and that's me._

"Eulogy's in his pad across from here," the woman said, sharpening her knife on the edge of the table. "He's the business side of things here. We just do the dirty work. And by dirty, I mean fun," she added with a twisted grin.

He nodded in thanks and backed out of there as fast as he could. He took another look at the slave pen on his way over; they had children in there, as well as men, women and ghouls. He didn't have enough caps to buy everyone's freedom - that would have been the safest option, but even if he had it would just go back into the industry. No, this had to end now. He passed another slaver on his way to the door, who looked as though he'd seen his fair share of trouble. "What you lookin' at punk?" he barked. Alfred lowered his gaze and muttered an apology before slipping inside.

Despite the grime and lack of sunlight, the place was remarkably well kept from its pre-war days. Compared to the other ruins he'd come across so far in his travels, it was rather fancy; carved pillars held up a balcony while plastic plants squatted in the dark corners; a clump of glowing mushrooms and a couple of electric lamps provided dim light, and a desk greeted him insider the foyer. He was so busy admiring the architecture that he failed to notice the pretty young thing enter the room and ask sweetly, "Can I help you, sir?"

He instantly noticed the bomb collar around her neck. Her hair was styled, her dress reasonably clean and almost intact, her figure appealing; it was obvious what her purpose was. "I'm here to see Mr Eulogy Jones," he replied, removing his hat as customary.

A voice called from deeper within the building, "Bring him in, Clover."

The woman beckoned for him to follow. The next room was even larger and grander, a ancient chandelier handing from the centre of the ceiling . A heart-shaped bed took centre stage, piled high with pink and red velvet cushions and plump duvets, the perfect retreat for a man of certain desires. The bed was empty thankfully, its owner relaxing instead on a leather bench that appeared to have been pulled from a diner, a second girl by his side in a matching dress. There were tables and chairs and a projector; it was the perfect place for a conference or sales pitch, with room for a private party thrown in. But all of these details paled in Alfred's mind when his eyes locked onto the computer terminal sitting in the corner.

"What can I do to help you, Mr...?"

Alfred studied the leader of paradise Falls. He'd been in charge when Arthur was a slave; the man before him had overseen his sale, put a price around his neck, allowed him to be traded like a pack of cigarettes. He wondered if he'd be able to lure this top prize out into range of his companion's rifle. Eulogy wore a clean, well fitted suit; either he got lucky, or spent a lot of time and caps having other search the ruins for such a lucrative item. He wasn't particularly muscular, and he carried little more than his own pistol; he didn't climb to the top of the tower through first-fights, that was for sure. The man was clever.

"Frederick. Albert Frederick," he introduced himself, offering a hand for him to shake. He seemed to appreciate the civilised manner, though the teen didn't doubt for a second that he was anything but. "I travelled a long way to see your wares, Mr Jones, it's a real honour."

"So I hear," he chuckled, setting down his drink. "Richman, huh? And now you're setting up shop in the Capital Wasteland. Lucky for you, I've got a range of slaves ideal for your needs. If you're planning for the future, I've got children, perfect for a long term investment such as yours. 2000 caps for all three, a generous deal."

Ouch. He had just shy of 400; buying them out was out of the question. "Maybe another time. I just be need the basics to start out. Once the caps come rolling in, I'll be back."

"Of course, no pressure at all. Tell you what, it's getting late. Why don't you crash in the barracks for the night, have a drink, and in the morning we can talk business once you've had a browse, got a few ideas together. Sound good?"

"Yessir, thank you."

He went to the barracks to crash for the night, casting a glance up the hillside in the vague direction of his friends. The past couple of day had been rocky, he could only hope they still had his back when he needed them.

On entering the slaver quarters, a beer bottle shot through the air smashed against the wall just sky of his head; raucous laughter filled the room as he slipped into a seat at an empty table with the hopes of being ignored. A game of beer pong started between two slavers, quickly escalating fight after the third round. Bets were hastily exchanged on everything from who'd win to how many teeth would be knocked out. Alfred jumped as the door burst open and the slaver stationed outside Eulogy's pad dragged in a young woman wearing a collar, ordering her up the stairs to the bunks. The teen was on his feet in an instant and hollering at the taller, broader man, "Hey! Get get your hands her!"

The room didn't fall silent - there were a few rowdy drunkards at the back - but the volume dimmed as the slaver turned to him. Surprise, then fury, then amusement crossed his face. He had a reputation to uphold though, as someone shouted, "Go easy on 'im, Forty, he doesn't know what he's in for!" Ah, so this was the infamous 'Forty' that Arthur had mentioned; the man boasted that he'd killed forty men, though slaves and ghouls didn't count of course. A quick look up and down told Alfred this was probably true; pistol at his waist, rifle on his back, and a couple of knives strapped to his legs. The man had scars ranging from cuts to burns, and a glare that had him nearly shitting himself as they stared each other down.

"I don't like being bein' spoken to like that," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Say goodbye to your arms, 'cos they're about to be ripped off."

Forcing down the urge to run, Alfred snarled, "I don't think Eulogy would appreciate you damaging the goods."

The slaver shoved him against the wall and grabbed his tie, choking him with it. "You threatening me, four eyes?"

"Not at all," he wheezed, managing a devious smile. "But how you gonna tell your boss that you lost him a sale worth _thousands_?"

He kicked and thrashed when Forty closed his tie tighter, then dropped him to the floor spluttering, his glasses falling off. While he felt around for them in the dark the man spat at him and grumbled, "Whatever," and walked off, leaving the young woman standing there. Alfred used the wall to pull himself to his feet and led her outside, the barracks exploding with laughter as the door swung shut.

"Are you alright?" he asked her as he escorted her back to the pens. She didn't reply. The guard on watch duty unlocked the gate, pushed her in, locked it back up again and trudged off back to his post. The girl was gone by the time he looked back to the pen, desperate to get out of sight and range of any other slavers sniffing her way. He sighed and was about to head back to the barracks, worried about having his throat slit while he slept, when a young voice hissed:

"Hey mister, you gotta help us."

He squinted in the dark, trying to make out the shape of the voice's owner. A young boy clung to the wire fence from inside the adjoining pen, waving him over. Alfred checked over his shoulder and found the guard turned away, so he moved over to talk to him.

"Can you get us out of here?" the boy asked, staring up at him. His clothes were ragged and filthy, the bomb collar loose around his scrawny neck; there was so little meat on his bones that his eyes appeared to bulge out of his skull. The dull glow in his eyes begged for his mercy ; he was his only chance.

"That's the general idea," Alfred replied in a hush. "Suggestions?"

"Can't you just shoot them all?" The teen must have sent him a stern look, because the kid dropped the idea. "Well, okay, I guess we could try Squirrel's plan. He says it'll work, but I don't know. It means using computers and stuff."

"Good," Alfred nodded, "I'm good with computers, go get him."

The child scoffed, turning away from him. "Don't tell me what to do, mungo," he said as he jogged to the back of the enclosure, leaving Alfred perplexed.

He returned with a older boy in tow. "Sammy says you want to know the plan. Well listen up mungo, because it's a good one. I'm super smart."

"Does it involved disabling the bomb collars by any chance?" he sighed. Honestly, he never had this much attitude as a child.

"Your not so dumb after all. I can disable the collars, there's an old terminal in the bathroom. I need you to go into the boss' place, connect my terminal to the network, and I'll take it from there. Think you can handle that, mungo?"

He pushed off the fence to stand straight and nodded, but broke into a yawn. Checking his Pip-boy, he found it was getting late; Eulogy would be in bed with his girls, with no way to sneak past at this hour. He'd had to do it in he morning, the sooner the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got serious block over this chapter but finally managed to put it into words. The next one is full of action, then wwe swing more into lightheartedness again :) Thanks for the comments, kudos and even just reading. I'm really enjoying writing this one since it's combining my two favourite series, so it's lovely to see others enjoying it too. xxx


	6. Rescue from Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: THIS WILL GET GORY! I've got the archive warning in place but I wanted to give readers a heads up for this chapter in particular. (It seems as though Alfred chose the Bloody Mess perk, *wink*.)
> 
> Also, happy Fallout 4 everyone!

Seeing as he had a proper bed to sleep in, he allowed himself to lie in like he used to on weekends back home in Vault 101. With his eyes closed and his body relaxed, he could almost pretend he was still there, waiting for his dad to finally rouse him, or Amata to come knocking and ask for his help with one of her vaultlife improvement schemes. But those were just memories now of an easier time, and there was more at stake today than his personal comfort. When he forced himself out of bed the slavers had already left to start work. Wandering around outside he took a careful note of what each of them were occupied with; the three charming folks he'd met yesterday afternoon were back at the bar, already on their second or third glass of whiskey. There was a guard on the raised central platform, as expected, and Forty sat in his place by the fire. Alfred kept his head down but an eye on the older slaver as he headed towards the slave pens to 'browse' as Eulogy had suggested, when the leader came outside, followed by his bodyguards, and picked an argument with the man. It wasn't just Alfred's head that turned; everyone in the camp fixed their eyes on them, enjoying the free entertainment and giving the teenager a chance to slip into Eulogy's pad unnoticed.

Once the door clicked shut behind him, he released a shaky breath, then proceeded to the main room. He knew where the terminal was, this would be a quick job. Checking his surroundings on the off chance someone was keeping watch, he slid into the chair in front of it and began typing. It was locked, of course, but with some digging around in the core files highlighted some of the most commonly used words. One stuck out: tryandrememberitthistime. He entered the string of letters into the login box with a smirk. _Too easy._ He had to hand it to Eulogy though, because while his password was easy to find, he kept his affairs in perfect order; there were sales records going back decades on this thing, as well as records on all his employees. What he wanted was the network controls.

The slave leader was no fool; there were several other terminals in the complex but this was the only one that was fully functional, the list of computers before him all marked 'disconnected'. He found the one for the bathroom in the children's pen, rechecked the box for connection, and waited for Squirrel to notify him.

"The hell are you doing in here?"

He spun round in his seat, caught red-handed, and found one of Eulogy's girls standing over him. There was no time to think; he whipped the silenced pistol Arthur gave him from his waist and fired twice, near point-blank, hitting her in the chest. The slave's eyes widened in shock, taking a moment to glance down at the holes already oozing with blood, before her body collapsed to the floor. Alfred's chest constricted, but it wasn't as if he was breathing anyway. He was back in the Wasteland with his two new friends, losing his mind after seeing an innocent human being have their head blown off thanks to slavers. Now, with this girl's blood splattered on his suit, he wasn't any better. She was a slave, defenceless, just doing her job under the threat of having that collar detonated. There was no denying what just happened, no pushing the blame onto another person. Nobody would have to know, but he would. He was a murderer.

A small beep from the terminal woke him from the panic-induced mental freeze. Hands shaking as he tapped at the keys, stomach still churning, he squinted at the screen to read Squirrel's message. 'Collars deactivated. Meet us at the pen.'

"Get it together, Al," he told himself as he stood. "Focus." He looked at the terminal, then at Crimson's body, still bleeding out onto the floor. He couldn't let anyone know he was here. His original plan had been to smash up the computer, but now he realised this had to be clean cut; he'd have to corrupt the operating system. First things first though, he needed to find a hiding place for her. "I'm sorry," he winced, for what good it would do, as he dragged her corpse into the side hall and under the stairs. Hopefully no one would come looking for her under there. Seeing as his karma had already sunk to a new low, he liberated a couple of bottles of Nuka-Cola that were stored nearby, some of them glowing blue, and stashed them in the small bag he'd brought with him into Paradise Falls, then grabbed a mop from behind the font desk and quickly cleaned the blood trail off the stone slabs. A little wouldn't come off, but in the low light of the great room he could get away with it.

Next, the terminal. Judging by his sarcastic password, probably conceived by a more tech-savy slave, Eulogy didn't appear particularly talented when it came to computers despite his impressive organisational skills. Messing around in the core programming rendered the thing inoperable, so much so that Alfred doubted he could fix it himself after all the random key-smashing he did. It was the best he could do without physically obliterating it. With one last careful surveillance of the room, he slipped back outside.

Squirrel was waiting for him at the fence. "We've got a problem," he said. "Penny made friends with this mungo, Rory, and won't leave without him. He's in The Box."

Alfred let out an irritated sigh; this was the last thing he needed. This was meant to be a simple job, straight in, straight out. "What do you need me to do?"

"We need to get rid of the guard anyway, and he's got the key."

The teenager looked over his shoulder towards the entrance of the guarded area. Forty sat by his firepit, gun in his hands, looking mean as anything. The sight of the guy had him shaking, remembering his encounter the night before. There was no way he could take him in a fight; any bullets he managed to drill into him would just be spat out. "No way," he hissed, "there's too many guards. And have you seen the size of him?"

"Then think of something else, mungo," he shot back. "Just make sure he's away from the pens. And get that key!"

He slowly headed back over to the slavers, glad to see Eulogy wasn't about; the last thing he needed was to be reeled into a business talk and have his cover blown. He ran through his options in his head. Perhaps he could lift the key from his pockets, but where were they stored? He doubted all the silvery words in the world couldn't persuade him to let him 'borrow' them. This guy wasn't going to give into him over his dead body.

The thought made his heart thud, remembering the slave girl's look of disbelief from moments ago. Yet somehow, he could justify this. These people weren't simply 'making a living', they were enjoying every ounce of power they held over the vulnerable, relishing in the fear they inspired, and Forty was the meanest of them all. This was the man Arthur and Francis had warned him about; only one of them could walk away from this. He had the silenced pistol slung at his waist, but it wouldn't leave a dent on the armour. A couple of grenades were an option, but it was a dead giveaway, and they could be useful to clear an escape route later. At the bottom of his bag was a knife, rusty but sharp. There wasn't much exposed skin on the guard, but if he could surprise him he might just get the upper hand.

Humming a cheery tune, one he learnt while listening to Galaxy News Radio, he took a seat near his target. Forty eyed him with a sneer, lip twitching upwards to reveal rotten fangs where they held a smoke. "What's up?" Alfred beamed, the epitome of friendliness.

"We got a reason to be talkin' I ain't aware of?" the slaver snarled.

Alfred stretched his arms above his head, sucking in a breath. "Oh you know, just stopping by to see how things are going. Tired? Need a break?"

The slaver took the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out on his armour. "Since when are we such good buddies, huh? I'll tell you what I need - I need you to _fuck off_."

Perhaps if he wasn't so scared of the bloke, Alfred would be getting angry, and finding more reasons to kill him. He gave a sheepish smile and wandered off towards the bar; he needed a drink to dull his nerves. The bartender - a new one - poured him a glass of something strong and he knocked it back. Glancing around the compound, his eyes connected with the leader as he left the barracks, his second slave girl in tow. The man made a beeline for him. Shit. He smoothed out the creases in his suit as best he could, and offered another charming smile. "Mr Frederick," the man greeted him, "how are we doing this fine day?"

"Just great! Those beds are almost as comfy as the ones at Tenpenny Tower." He laughed. "Almost." P _lease, please,_ please _go away._

Eulogy took a seat next to him, Clover perching on his lap, arms looped around his shoulders. "Found any stock to your liking?" he enquired, snapping his fingers for a drink.

"Well I _would_ ," he replied, glancing back towards where the guard sat, "if Forty would stop pestering me. He won't let me near enough to get a good look."

"Oh don't you worry about Forty, he's not as tough as he'd have you believe," Eulogy said, taking a sip. "He's been pissed since his knee gave in after taking on a mirelurk down at the Potomac. Hurt his pride that a crab got the better of him after a life of being the top predator. Doesn't like to walk around much, the limps too obvious. Waste of space if you ask me, and he keeps demanding higher pay. I'd finish him off myself if he wasn't such a good shot." He slid the empty glass down the table to the bartender and stood. "Just tell him you're my guest and if he's got a problem he should come talk to me. Now if you'll excuse me, I think the weapons trader just pulled his brahmin up outside."

Alfred waved him off, waited for him to leave through the main gates, then sprung to his feet. _Here goes nothing_. Everyone was up and about, either on their post or getting sloshed at the bar - what else was there to do? The barracks would be empty, maybe not all day, but he didn't need all day. He needed nothing more than a few minutes and a clear escape route. He pushed off from the stool and headed back towards where Forty sat, cleaning his gun.

"I thought we was pretty clear about our relationship," he growled. "You stay the hell away from me, and I don't shoot you in the face."

Alfred ignored him. "They must pay you pretty well to put up with this boring job," he said.

The slaver seemed surprised. "Yeah, I mean they pay well enough, I guess. What the hell do you care?"

He shrugged. "Just seems like you do most of the work around here."

"So maybe I get a raw deal sometimes, that's the way shit goes." He frowned and huffed, spitting in the dirt. "But maybe it's time that changed. Maybe I go see Eulogy about that right now, in fact."

Alfred leapt to the side to get out of his way. "I saw him heading towards the barracks," he told him, following, but not too close. He watched the older man stride towards the building, and noticed the stoop in his right step. Once Forty was inside he hurried after him, rooting through his bag for the knife.

"Eulogy!" he barked, tossing over tables and chairs in his new found rage. "Eulogy, where are ya'? We gotta talk."

The teen gripped the knifes handle tighter in his palm, then gave the slaver a hard kick in the back of his afflicted knee, sending him to the floor with a startled shout. "Eulogy's not coming," he snarled as he sat on his back, grabbing a handful of withered hair from his mohawk to tilt his head back, pressing the blade against the man's throat. Any cries for help were cut off by the stream of blood gushing down his throat, and Alfred did his best to keep him pinned as he thrashed beneath him, the rifle across his back cutting into his thighs. Even with the knife's fine edge he had to saw at the cartilage, his eyes firmly shut as he tried to block out the scene, the sounds, the stench. Finally the slaver was still. There would be no forty-first kill. He tried to tell himself he'd done the world a favour, extracted some vengeance for the man's victims, but as he washed his bloodied hands in the dirty water of the bathrooms basin, he couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop staring at his reflection and thinking _killer_.

_You can do this, Alfred,_ he repeated to himself over and over, gripping the edge of the sink. He was going to be sick, he knew it. But he didn't have time for that. He was so close now, so close to getting out of here and bringing everyone with him. It would be worth it, it had to be. He had to keep on hoping.

He held the key up to the light of the single, dangling bulb in the bathroom. He'd liberated it from Forty's body, now tucked up inside a locker. He had what he needed to free the slaves. It was time to signal Arthur. With one last glare at his reflection he grabbed a spare piece of pipe and swung it into the glass, shattering it. The shards cascaded to the floor, twinkling on their way. Carefully wrapping it in a scrap of fabric, he picked up a piece, hid it in his bag, and returned to the enclosures.

Hidden from sight of the rest of the camp, he brought the shard out and turned it in the sunlight, hoping that his friends would get a glimpse of the suns reflection from their camp in the hills. There was no way for them to signal back to him, he just had to hope. He threw it aside, out of the path of bare feet about to run for their lives, and unlocked the slave pens. The children ran straight past him, but not into the path of the guards; instead, they hurried to the slaver bathroom. Sammy stopped and hissed, "We're getting out through the sewer. Meet you outside, mungo. Don't forget Rory!"

Shouts erupted in the centre of the camp, the slavers realising they were under attack by an invisible enemy. Time to go. He ushered the adult slaves out of their enclosure and told them to stay down until he said it was clear. While Arthur picked off a few more slavers he unlocked The Box, and a man stumbled out. Alfred was shocked; he'd been expecting a child. "You okay?" he asked him. Rory gave a nod and for him that was enough, they couldn't wait any longer if they wanted any hope of escape. "Just run," he told them. "As fast as you can, don't stop for anything or anyone. I've got friends waiting in the hills over there."

Nobody moved. No one wanted to go first, to take the brunt of the gunfire. He let out a shaky breath. "Follow me." There was nothing more he could do - he couldn't force them to go, but surely they could see this was their best chance, that there was safety in numbers. He heard hurried footfall behind him but didn't turn to look, only focussed on the path ahead. The rest of Paradise Falls was in a state of utter confusion as the slavers tried to work out where the assassin was shooting from, firing in random directions. The distraction gave the group of escapees the upper hand; they were already halfway through by the time the slavers opened fire on them. Alfred didn't count how many were already dead, all he knew was the fewer of them the better.

He forgot about the grenades in his bag, which would have been useful when they met a group of slavers blocking the exit; he just shoved past them though, knocking two to the ground, and burst through the doors. If he slowed a fraction he'd fall face-first, his legs tumbling forward with each stride, unstoppable; such momentum propelled him down the winding path to freedom. If only the Vault 101 baseball coach could see him now! Past the pounding in his ears and the bullets impacting the dirt, he could still hear some slaves close behind. He couldn't stand the tension, he had to know how many had made it out. While his head was turned to count the survivors, he collided with somebody. The tangle of limbs in the dust took a few seconds to unwind, especially with the commotion surrounding him. While he was orientating himself he saw a ghoul wrestling with Grouse over a shotgun, finally wrenching it out of the slavers grasp and planting two rounds in his skull as a pair of women fled by; the ghoul turned and shot back at the slavers who followed them out, joined by another slave who'd acquired a gun. Alfred struggled to his feet but found himself stuck, his leg held by a hand. He looked down to find Eulogy gripping him by the ankle. "I should have known," the man snarled. "Clover! Kill him."

Alfred's gaze snapped up to the woman dressed in pink, a crazy gleam in her eyes, and a shotgun in hand. He struggled to escape, but the slaver leader held fast. As the woman raised her weapon he concluded that this was it, this was how it ended, this was the price he paid. He hadn't done too badly he supposed, he'd saved as many people as he could from this place, brought havoc and death to the slavers of Paradise Falls and set their industry back years. His parents would be proud. So he was surprised when a bullet was fired but didn't land between his eyes, but hers instead. A fresh coat of red decorated his clothing, and coated the pretty spring dress on Clover's body. He took a step back, his leg slipping out of Eulogy's grasp as he stared at his lifeless bodyguard, and started running again.

He dragged the two shooting slaves alongside him. "Leave it! Just go!" he shouted over the noise, and loped behind them as they fled. The shots decreased, Arthur still keeping up the heat. He passed the poor caravan trader hidden behind a slab of concrete with his brahmin, caught up in the drama. _Sorry_ , he winced to himself, hoping the poor guy would make it out alright. Up ahead he saw the three children waiting by a drain grate, and made his way towards them. "We've gotta go," he said, "move it! Get into the hills!"

The girl, Penny, fought against him though. "Where's Rory? You promised you'd save him!" she yelled, tears welling in her eyes.

Alfred blinked at her, confused. "I did," he said, looking between the boys. "I let him out of The Box. Didn't he come by with the others?"

The boys remained silent, gazes lowered, as Penny thumped at his stomach with balled fists, sobbing.

There was an explosion from within the camp, a fireball and smoke rising into the air, the heat prickling at his face as the enormous pre-war Ice Cream Boy statue groaned and collapsed on its side, the crash as it landed audible for miles. "We can't stay," he said, prying the child off him. "Follow me."

He took off again, but realised the children had shorter legs than him. They ran as fast as they could but at this rate the remaining slavers would easily catch up with them; he couldn't abandon them though. The group slowed even more as the terrain began to slope. He kept pushing them on, desperate to keep out of range of the people on their tail. Most of their stalkers had given up, however no more had been taken out; either they were out of Arthur's range or he'd ran out of bullets. In an attempt to shake them, he helped the kids up a cliff as a shortcut. Sammy and Squirrel made it fine with a boost, scrambling to their feet at the top of the ledge, but Penny couldn't quite manage to swing her legs up. "Come on, come on," Alfred begged, "keep trying!" He kept checking for the slavers' progress.

There was just one left, his suit covered in dirt and blood, a piercing, hate-filled stare aimed at Alfred as he drew closer, reaching for the pistol at his hip.

The young doctor gave one final shove and launched Penny into the air and up onto solid ground, then ran. Eulogy didn't want his slaves, he wanted revenge. The sound of gunfire returned, one shot after another, a little too far left, a little too far right. Alfred ran and ran until he felt his ribs stabbing at his lungs, but in that second of slack his assailant gained on him and landed a successful shot. The round grazed his left arm, scooping out a gully in the flesh and singeing the torn fabric of his clothes. He suffocated on his own cry of pain, already starved of air. He couldn't keep going, not any more. With trembling hands he reached for his pistol and returned fire, missing and missing and missing until it was out of ammo. He threw the damn thing at him in frustration, and managed to hit him in the face.

Alfred took the opportunity to knock the slaver leader to the ground, barrelling into him with his whole body weight. Eulogy swore as his head hit the packed earth, giving the teen the chance to knock the weapon from his hand. A fist came up and smacked into his cheek, catching him off guard; Eulogy was no heavy weight, but he knew his way in a fight, and rolled them over to pin him to the ground, wrapping his fingers around the vault dweller's throat. "I'll kill you," he panted, lips dry from the race across the desert, "with my own hands."

Without so much as a lungfull of oxygen Alfred was already feeling faint, white pricking at the edge of his vision, the early afternoon sun bearing down on him even harder than his attacker's hands. His bag had fallen from his shoulders as they'd struggled in the dirt, its contents spilled over the ground. He couldn't overpower Eulogy, not with gravity on his side. He had to knock him out, or stun him, or -

He caught sight of the mesmetron, a couple of feet away.

Still staring up into the sickly yellow of the sky as not to draw attention, he reached for the gun. His fingertips brushed the edge of it, cool and smooth. _Please_. In one final, desperate motion he stretched as far as his arm would go without dislocating, grabbed it, and fired. Eulogy's grip slacked instantly and he flopped backwards, allowing Alfred to scuttle out from underneath his still form, sucking in air in heaving gasps. This wasn't over yet though. Hacking and wheezing, the younger man snatched the second bomb collar Grouse had given him, and fitted it around the slaver's neck. At long last he could just sit and breathe, exhausted. He doubted he could fight a bloatfly in his current state.

A minute or two passed and Eulogy finally came round, pushing himself to his feet with a frown. "The hell?" His eyes settled on Alfred and turned fiery once more. "Let's finish this," he snarled, but Alfred, still on his knees, tilted his head and smiled, pointing to his neck. There was a sick sense of pleasure as he watched the man's fingers trail up from his chest to where the ring of metal sat locked around his throat, eyes widening in confusion, recognition, then terror.

Alfred forced himself up. "I think you'd better come with me," he said, guiding him in the direction of his friends' camp with the mesmetron. The slaver didn't know what to make of the weapon at first, then decided he'd rather leave its function as a mystery. He didn't argue or fight or flee; he didn't know that the collar was useless now.

Well, almost.

\---

The campsite hummed with activity. Slaves stood around, some waiting to have their collars removed, others crying with relief and joy after being liberated of the device. Food and water was being passed around, wounds being treated by amateur first-aiders. Francis was busy working on the release mechanism of a collar when they arrived; it was Arthur that spotted them first. He dropped the sniper rifle, and hurried towards them, only to stop when he realised who he was escorting into the camp. The ex-slaves parted to make way, the memory of Eugoly Jones' power over their lives still fresh in their minds; a muttering spread around as they noticed the collar.

"Stand there," Alfred ordered his captive, and joined Arthur where he stood a few metres away. He placed the mesmetron in the shorter man's hands. "Thought I'd let you do the honours," he explained.

Arthur stared at him, then at the strange weapon in his grasp, turning it over. While he hadn't explained what it was or how it worked, it was a gun, they were all the same - point and shoot. It was no conventional firearm, powered by energy cells of one form of another. A few seconds of study told the ex-slave all he needed to know, and he raised it level with his targets neck. "Stand back," he told the crowd.

Eulogy took a sharp breath. "Wait-"

No sound accompanied the mesmetron firing; there was nothing to indicate it worked at all save for the sudden violent juddering of the bomb collar, followed by its detonation. Many people had turned away, unable to bear witness to what was likely the same fate of their loved ones, but some watched with stoic satisfaction; justice had been done. The last leader of Paradise Falls fell to the ground, blood steadily flowing from the gaping crater between the headless shoulders.

As Arthur lowered his arms, Francis sighed, "Well, that's that."

\---

With names and directions exchanged the band of ex-slaves could split at last. Several hours of organisation closed with two groups, one heading east, the other south; the trio escorted the latter. Once he'd changed back into his vaultsuit, Alfred guided Arthur in patching up his arm, unable to do it himself. Little was said between them, the gunman still upset with him for enslaving another human being, though he didn't seem to mind about Eulogy. Alfred couldn't quite find the right words to thank him for having his back out there, either. Everyone was quiet, plagued by their own thoughts, eager to put past events behind them for good.

At first, Sammy and his friends travelled with them, but a few hours later when Alfred was doing a head count he noticed they'd disappeared. He was about to sound the alarm and search for them when Arthur gently patted his good arm and said, "Don't worry, they'll be half way to Little Lamplight by now."

Some of the slaves decided to strike out west towards Arefu, leaving them as a group of five: themselves and two men heading for Megaton. Arthur knew of a bridge where they could cross the Potomac, but of course it would never be as simple as that.

Francis whistled a long, low note. Alfred glanced around in confusion as Arthur leapt for cover behind a boulder, before the ghoul shoved him and the two men into hiding as well. "What now?" He was bloodied and bruised and above all else, tired. He just wanted a safe place to lay his head, was that so much to ask?

The gunman nodded ahead. There was the bridge, in plain sight, and patrolling it, two humongous green monstrosities. Their bodies bulged in odd places, their teeth forced out of their mouths in a permanent grimace, their hides covered in scars. They wore patchy armour but didn't need it by the looks of it, and bellowed to one another in casual conversation. One carried a sledgehammer, the other, a gatling gun. They were unlike anything Alfred had ever seen out here; their appearance alone knocked him sick. "What are those things?" he whispered, unable to tear his eyes from them.

"Those," Arthur replied, "are Super Mutants."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be some shipping activity soon heh heh~  
> Thanks for reading :) x


	7. Big Town

"We're going to have to fight them."

 

Alfred whipped his head around to stare at his ghoul companion. _"Are you crazy?"_ he hissed. "We can't take them!" He could see now why the duo weren't exactly thrilled about entering the ruins of D.C..

 

Francis' dull stare bore into him as he attempted to reason with him, scientist to scientist. "We've not got enough water to detour," he rasped, damaged voice straining to be heard as he kept the volume down, "and you three look like you're about to drop dead. This is our best shot."

 

Arthur tutted from his spot behind the boulder, still peeking over the top. "We can take 'em."

 

The ghoul produced a toothless smile. "You think?"

 

The medic kept his mouth shut. He wanted to help, and he couldn't let them do this alone, but he was so tired; the mental and emotional exhaustion had finally caught up with him during their trek south, not the mention the effects of blood loss and dehydration. He didn't have it in him to start shooting again. Hell, he doubted he could even stand up now he was sat on the ground.

 

The other two didn't care though, quite happy to let him sit this one out, as well as their travel buddies. Arthur's sniper rifle still had some kick left in it, having repaired it with the parts from Arkansas' gun. A well timed shot when the Mutant's back was turned gave them the upper hand; Francis was firing on it before it had chance to turn around. Alfred watched from behind the rock, wishing to take note of any weaknesses. Saying that, they were tough sons of bitches. No, not 'tough'. Indestructible. Arthur reloaded the rifle and took another shot, hitting it in the chest and tearing open an exit wound, but it refused to fall.

 

The first storm of bullets ricocheted off the rock, chipping off fragments and creating a cloud of dust. They ducked for cover again, only to spring back up the instant the assault ceased. A third hit by Arthur managed to overpower the brute, either through blood loss or severed nerves, and it crashed to the ground, though they had yet to deal with the second one. It came barreling towards them, seemingly unaware of the uphill slope, never slowing its powerful strides. The closer it got the more terrified Alfred grew. His mind boggled over the balance of strength and the weight of the muscles that provided it; surely it wasn't possible to hold up that much body mass? The bones would break, or at least deform. How did they maintain such a build with the poor and scarce nutrition the Wasteland had on offer? And how the hell did they grow to be ten feet tall?

 

A glance at Arthur confirmed his suspicion; they'd bitten off more than they could chew. The gunman had switched the sniper rifle out for his shotgun slowly backed up, pumping round after round into the wall of green-grey flesh bounding towards them, sledgehammer raised in one hand. He doubted his tiny-little 10mm pistol would make a difference, or the rusty knife, or-

 

The grenades.

 

He hurriedly fished around in his bag, left arm smarting from the jerky movement. Two would be enough, right?

 

He stood, pulling the pin out of the first explosive. "Hey, ugly!" he yelled. The Super Mutant stopped and turned its gristly neck to look at him, nostrils flared. Alfred hurled the grenade in an over-arm throw his baseball coach would have been proud of; the device sailed through the air and was caught in one hand by the Mutant, which opened its fist and brought it close to its face, curious to see what the shorter creature had thrown to it.

 

Alfred felt the heat of the explosion where he stood. When the bubble of sticky, maroon blood burst and cleared, the Mutant's hand was gone, and long, blistered burns reached up its arm, chest and face. It released a furious roar, spit flying from its rotten mouth. His friends took the opportunity to continue their onslaught, dealing as much damage as possible before its body could regenerate from its injuries. Soon the burns and bullet holes that peppered its skin were too much for it to handle, and it flopped forward into the dust with a heavy thud.

 

Arthur blew across the nose of his shotgun. "I had it under control," he muttered.

 

\---

 

Alfred tipped the bottle back in another futile attempt of finding one last drop of water within.  The group had ceased talking a while back, eyes down as they marched the dusty trail towards Megaton. The ground swayed slightly, the air swimming in the heat. He hadn't lost that much blood, but more than if he'd been able to do the bandage himself; dehydration was the main threat, and now it was a race against time. He did the maths in his head, uncertain if the numbers were accurate in his present state of mind. He stopped when he realised they’d never cover enough ground in time.

 

Arthur, walking up ahead, looked back at him and frowned. "Don't stop now, Alfred, else you won't get going again."

 

"We won't make it," the teen squeaked, vocal cords dry and tense.

 

The gunman shouldered his shotgun and closed the gap between them, and gently shook him. "Hey," he said, swallowing for any moisture he could get from his mouth, "I know what you're thinking, but it's alright, me and Francis have a plan."

 

Alfred looked between his eyes, struggling to concentrate. "But we don't have any more water," he said.

 

Arthur took his hand and tugged him along by the wrist. "Just keep walking, okay? Can you do that for me? We're nearly there."

 

The doctor nodded his head and resumed walking, the pull giving him a jumpstart. They had a plan. It would be okay. He kept telling himself that over and over, matching Arthur's pace as they carried on over the broken road surface; it occurred to him a while later that the older man still had a hold of his arm, leading him to their destination.

 

It snuck up on him, though saying that it wasn't as if he was paying attention to their surroundings. They were on the outskirts of a pre-war settlement, many of the houses left intact. Arthur let go of his wrist and returned the shotgun to his hands, the band slowing their pace. They moved into the centre of town, avoiding the occasional beartrap laid out across the road. Weaving through the streets, they eventually came to a rope bridge over a stagnant pool of water. Arthur led the way and stepped onto the bridge, only to have a bullet fly by his head. "Bloody hell!" he barked, hand leaping to cover his heart.

 

"That's close enough!" shouted a voice from across the water. In his delirious state, Alfred tried to pinpoint its owner in the shade under a front porch of one of the houses.

 

Arthur scowled at the figure. "For fuck sake Dusty, you could have killed me," he snarled.

 

'Dusty' stood and moved into the daylight. He was young, younger than Alfred by a year or two. He wore armour likely scavenged from nearby ruins, passed down through generations of survivors. He earned his title, wearing a layer of dust like a second skin; Alfred considered how filthy his own complexion was now after a couple of weeks in the Wasteland. The stranger had a pistol in one hand, a weak hand that trembled as it held the weapon up. If his shot was meant to warn Arthur, he nearly killed him; if it was meant to kill, he missed badly. "Eyebrows? Is that you?"

 

The gunman lowered his weapon to one side and threw out his spare arm, grinning. "The one and only."

 

The youngster waved him over. "Come on in, and bring your friends! You must be exhausted."

 

Arthur tutted and strode along the rest of the ramshackle bridge. "You're far too trusting. How do you know I've not joined a raider gang?"

 

Alfred followed, spurred on by the prospect of water and a place to sit. He heard Dusty reply in a dull tone, "Raiders would be the least of our problems right now."

 

Dusty had to remain on guard duty, but pointed them towards another boy, Flash. As they walked, Alfred tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, Art," he asked, "why'd he call you 'Eyebrows'."

 

The gunman bit his lip. "You're bound to find out sooner or later," he grumbled, and brushed his fringe up to reveal a pair of huge, bushy eyebrows. They couldn't be natural, it had to be a mutation. Alfred bit his tongue to prevent himself laughing, and stared at the monsters until Arthur combed his matted hair down again and trudged off.

 

Flash greeted Arthur with surprise. "You son of a bitch," he said. "Eyebrows? I thought you'd be Deathclaw chow by now."

 

Arthur let out a heavy sigh. "I wish. Look, we need to crash for a few days, that alright?"

 

"Sure man. Wow, you guys look rough, what happened?"

 

One of the other inhabitants handed out bottles of water and boxes of food, which Alfred twisted open and gulped down gratefully. His headache didn't disappear, and neither did the dizziness, but he felt somewhat refreshed and able to focus. Glancing around, the young doctor couldn't help but notice the settlement was nearly deserted, and none of its few inhabitants seemed to be any older than Arthur. He saw him looking around the village, concern showing on his face. He didn't answer Flash's question. "Where's Red? I need to talk to her."

 

A girl was passing around supplies; at Arthur's question she whimpered, "They took her and the others."

 

"Took them where? Who?"

 

Flash sighed. "The Super Mutants," he explained. "They've been picking us off for weeks. Then the slavers come in and take anyone who's too weak to fight. There's just me, Kimba, Bittercup, Pappy and Dusty left, unless you count Timebomb, but he's at deaths door. It's just a matter of time before they haul the last of us off."

 

Arthur had already loaded his shotgun, bagging the supplies he'd been given. "Where did they take them?" he asked, expression set and determined. Alfred didn't like the look of it one bit, and swallowed down his current mouthful of water.

 

"Arthur, no," he cut in, "we can't fight the Mutants. You saw how tough they were back by the bridge!"

 

"I can't leave Red to die," Arthur replied, then asked Flash again, "Where are they?"

 

Flash looked between them both, uncertain whose side to pick. "The guy's got a point, boss," he said. "They're probably dead-"

 

The gunman grabbed the kid by his shirt. "Where?" he demanded.

 

"G-German Town! The police headquarters!"

 

"Thank you," he said, dropping him. He looked Alfred up and down. "You did good back in Paradise Falls, I don't expect you to come. Stay here, get some rest. We'll be back by morning."

 

Alfred looked desperately to Francis; the ghoul had taken the back seat until now, keeping quiet since they entered the town. "Kid, what you've got to remember is we've all got folk we care about," he told him, stubbing out his latest smoke. "You want your dad to be safe, Arthur wants these folk to be safe. It's as simple as that."

 

"And what if you don't come back?" the teen asked, voice hitching at the end.

 

"We will," Arthur sighed, heading towards the rope bridge.

 

"But what if you don't?"

 

"Then you'll have to find a big gun and fight your way through D.C. on your own," Arthur ground out. "But it won't come to that." He stopped and held him by the arm to direct his attention to his eyes, to force him to look him in the face. "I promise."

 

He wouldn't win this fight; Arthur was adamant about going, for reasons he wasn't willing to admit to him. Alfred stepped back with a somber nod. "Don't fucking die. That goes for you too, Francis," he said, stepping back. He poked a hand under his glasses and rubbed at his stinging eyes. "I need sleep."

 

He wandered off into one of the houses, not wishing to see their departure. No matter how confident the other two were, he couldn't help but worry, and not just for the sake of his own goal of finding his dad in D.C.; despite how tough they'd been on him so far, he'd grown close to the ghoul and sharpshooter. At the end of the day he could hire a few mercenaries to take him through the metro ruins, but he couldn't buy friendship.

 

Feeling as though he would black out at any second, he found an empty bed and collapsed into it. The water had eased his head but the adrenaline crash after the past few days was a force to be reckoned with. He no longer noticed the smell of sweat coming from the sheets, no longer cared that there was light pouring in through the tattered curtains. After a few seconds of listening to his own breathing, he was asleep.

 

He knew he was asleep, but the foggy world in his head seemed inexplicably real. He was back at Paradise Falls, still smoldering, columns of tar-like smoke climbing into the air. He had to get out. He ran for the exit, but the rusted doors of the buses stretched into the infinite distance, taunting him. His lungs failed him, filled with soot and choking gases, and he stumbled, straight into the arms of the corpses reaching up towards him, fingers gnarled and skin flaking, some with their throats slit, others with dirty crimson stains across their chests, all of them screaming.

 

He woke with a shout, his body jarring as he braced to hit the ground. Breaths fast and shallow, he pushed himself up on shaky arms and reacquainted himself with his surroundings. It was morning now, he'd slept right through the previous afternoon; despite the warming air as the sun climbing to its highest point in the sky he shivered. He stumbled into the kitchen and twisted the taps; muddy water poured out and collected in the sink. Wrinkling his nose, he leant over and scooped handfuls into his mouth, radiation be damned. Quenched, he braved the bright light of the outdoors in search of his friends.

 

There was no sign of them, nor the two men who were heading to Megaton. Doing his best to squash the concern in his chest, he headed over to one of the girls, sat on the half-wall at the front of one of the pre-war houses. He reminded her of Amata from home; dark skin, a lively spirit in her eyes, always asking questions. She'd been the one to reveal that some of the town’s occupants had been kidnapped, and knew to ask for help. Whereas Amata was fiery and pushed boundaries in the name of advancement, this girl seemed much more timid, but who could blame her, living out here?

 

He waved at her, trying to grab her attention. "Hello," he said on approach, "I'm Alfred, you must be?"

 

"Kimba," she answered.

 

When she said nothing more, Alfred sat on the wall with her, leaving a suitable amount of space for two strangers. "So," he tried again, "any news on the rescue party?"

 

She shook her head. "Nothing. I don't think any of us are surprised though."

 

"I am," he said. The ghoul and the survivalist were a tough pair, not even a radscorpion could put Arthur down, even if he'd intervened on that occasion. If it weren't for their understandable fear, he reckoned they could have wiped out Paradise Falls without his help. And with a worthy cause to fight for there wasn't a thing on the planet they couldn't overcome to save a friend in need. So the fact that they weren't back by now troubled him.

 

Kimba glanced at him, offering a sympathetic smile. "Living here, you get used to people disappearing."

 

He shifted, uncomfortable with both the conversation and the shards of concrete digging into the back of his thighs. "And the two slaves?"

 

"They set out this morning."

 

He sighed. Kimba didn't think he'd see any of them again. Was the Wasteland really that bad? He supposed that he'd had his friends to fall back on for the last couple of weeks, but if people really fell off the face of the Earth, then how were you supposed to make any connections? You'd only lose them in the end. And yet, against all the odds, against every trouble that had come their way, this conglomerate of teenagers were still fighting it out. "It must be rough living out here," he said. "How did you even wind up here?"

 

"Oh, Little Lamplight is where most of us came from," she chirped, kicking her legs out. "We used to play together when we were kids." Her tone darkened. "Then we got old and we had to leave - those are the rules. So we packed up and headed here, like we were supposed to." She tutted, kicking the dust. "No one told us it would be like this. We never have fun anymore, and most of us- most of us are dead."

 

"Where does Arthur fit into all this?" Alfred asked.

 

She frowned for a second, then smiled. "Oh, Eyebrows. He's the oldest one left. Before everything went wrong, we used to send scavenging parties out into the Wasteland. Arthur was on one of them with a couple of others but they never came back, and neither did the search parties. Red stepped up as leader and we barricaded ourselves inside in order to survive." She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Never thought we'd see him again."

 

"He came back once," Alfred said, "he'll come back again."

 

"Don't mistake luck for immortality," she mumbled.

 

He didn't want to argue with her. He knew Arthur and Francis would return, even if they had to crawl back. He excused himself and took a look around. The youths dotted around the village seemed preoccupied with their misery, and paid him no heed as he poked his nose about the place. Most of the buildings were for storage or sleeping in, though there was also a clinic. He needed to clean the wound on his arm and bandage it properly, but the building was deserted. It would be wrong of him to take scarce medical supplies without giving something in return, especially since they faced a serious threat with the Super Mutant attacks. There were only two windows, both boarded up; squinting through the darkness, he noticed the body lying on the examination table.

 

But it wasn't a body; it was a boy, still alive, though only just. He responded to Alfred's words and tentative shakes with weak breaths. A sickly-looking wound simmered on his torso where his clothes had been burned away; classic signature of an energy weapon.

 

"That's Timebomb."

 

Alfred jumped at the voice, turning to see the other girl had followed him in.

 

“I’m Bittercup,” she said, then nodded at the boy on the table, arms crossed. "He was shot in the last attack by the Mutants. He needs an operation, but with Red gone he's not gonna make it."

 

"I'm a doctor," he said. "Kinda. This is a bit out of my league though."

 

"That's coward talk," she huffed. "Red learned from experience and pre-war books. How'd you learn?"

 

"Watching my dad."

 

"And he never did an operation?"

 

He waved her questions off. "It was never that dangerous at the vault, just a radroach bite every now and then." He laughed. "He had to deliver a baby once, brought me along to watch. I fainted."

 

Bittercup smirked. "I bet Red wouldn't. Man, I wish she was here now."

 

The vault dweller swallowed and glanced at her. No one had approached the subject, but he knew these kids had the most experience with the Super Mutants; they could provide him with the best estimate. "Do you think they're still, you know-"

 

"What, alive?" she replied, then shrugged. "Hard to say. They could be back any moment. Or you might never see them again."

 

"But this is Arthur we're talking about," he said, moving towards the door. The darkness and the depressing topic had set a chill into his bones, and he longed for the blistering heat of the sun.

 

He held the door open for her as they left Timebomb to sleep. "You're right," Bittercup chuckled. "He wouldn't go down without a fight. He'll be back, and his ghoul friend. They're quite a team."

 

"You know Francis?"

 

"He's stopped by with Eyebrows a couple of times. He's cool. He gave us the robots."

 

That caught Alfred's attention. They had a Mr Handy in Vault 101; he wasn't much use, old Andy, but his central processor was in the right place, despite managing to demolish his birthday cake each and every year instead of letting one of the residents cut it. It seemed the generations of vault dwellers still clung to the luxury of mechanical servants; the first thing a newly-designated engineer learned after passing their G.O.A.T. was how to maintain and repair their last remaining robot. It was hard enough keeping him going with whatever spare parts they had lying around in the vault; how did they fare in the heat and dust of the Wasteland?

 

"Show me."

 

She led him round the back of the clinic, where the scrap heap was. Discarded bottles and pieces of pre-war trash that couldn't be made into anything useful littered the ground; bent cans and loose paper skittered about in the breeze, rattling against one another before settling in a corner. Two robots lay at the base of the pile. They seemed to be in poor condition, the paint chipped and peeling off, clogged with sand, the joints rusted up. They would need a lot of attention to get up and running again. "They were great, helped keep the Mutants at bay," Bittercup explained as he squatted down to examine the three-legged model. "But that one's circuits got fried with a laser beam, and the other got deactivated by a slaver a few nights later. It's been hard to defend ourselves since then." She paused, her scornful expression melting away for a moment when she asked if he would be able to fix them.

 

Alfred sighed; he shouldn't have got her hopes up. "Robots aren't exactly my expertise," he admitted as he stood. "But when Francis gets back I'm sure he can show you how to keep them repaired."

 

She stepped back. "Me?"

 

"Yeah, why not? You guys need a mechanic."

 

She kicked a Nuka Cola bottle across the ground; it broke against an old steel girder. "I'm no use here," she mumbled. "The others hate me, just because I like finding nice clothes more than watching out for Mutants. Plus I've dated most of the guys, so..."

 

He gave her a gentle, hopefully encouraging punch on the shoulder. "Aw, come on. You can still care about your looks and learn a trade. And just think - if you can make these 'bots work then you can spend less time on guard and more time doing your own thing." He offered her his most convincing smile. "You're fine the way you are."

 

She smiled, and maybe blushed - it was hard to tell through all the chalk she used as make-up. "You're not bad yourself," she said, voice dropping to a whisper as she edged closer to him. "I'm going to build a little shrine to you. All I need is some candles and incense."

 

Well, that got creepy quickly. As scoured his brain for an excuse to slip away, a gunshot rang out in the thick afternoon air. "Oh boy, what was that?" he babbled as he marched off in the direction of the sound, towards the entrance of the town. "I'd better take a look, see you later!" He blew out a breath, eager to be out of her reach as soon as possible.

 

As he turned the corner he saw Dusty pointing out over the barricade. "It's them! They made it!" he hooted.

 

"How many of them?" Flash asked.

 

"Four, I think. Red's definitely there."

 

"Alright, keep your sights on them," Flash commanded. "Don't want them being taken down by a molerat before they reach us."

 

Alfred had other ideas. Gun ready at his side, he jogged over the creaking bridge and towards the group; their pace was sluggish, worryingly so. Glancing around to check for Mutants or even a stray Slaver, he waved to them. "Hey!"

 

"Don't just stand there you idiot," barked a voice so unmistakably Arthur's, "get over here and help!" He and a young woman, Red presumably, supported a boy between them, his leg bloodied and twisted; Francis brought up the rear, checking over his shoulder at every breath of wind and shimmer of heat. The doctor hurried over but found himself unsure how to help out. He opted for carrying the boy himself, Arthur and Red hoisting him over and across his shoulders, though not without pained cries from the casualty. The two of them wobbled with every stride, wheezing the afternoon heat, with every indication that they were about to drop dead, and Francis smelling like it. With Alfred taking over from carrying their companion though they managed to close the gap between themselves and Big Town, lurching over the invisible boundary that divided the Wasteland and safety. Arthur collapsed to his knees, coughing violently as he tried to claw air into his lungs. In concern for his friend's health, Alfred found himself almost dropping the injured boy to see to him, but took initiative and carried him into the clinic, setting him down onto another stretcher.

 

"Oh God," the lad groaned, face scrunched up as he grit his teeth, "is it bad? Am I going to die like Timebomb?"

 

"Timebomb's not dead," Alfred gutturally corrected him, giving his leg a quick check over. While there was definitely a cut or a sore of some sort between the shreds of fabric, the blood was dark and sticky, not pouring from his veins. He'd live. "Stay there," he said, heading for the door.

 

The boy snorted. "As if I have a choice!"

 

The few remaining citizens were gathered in the yard, pummeling the trio with questions. _What happened? How did you make it out alive? Did you manage to kill those things? Are they coming back?_ Knowing how weak he'd felt after walking under the blazing sun all day, he brought over some snacks and water for them, and told the others to back off. He was a stranger to them, but he was older than most, and that seemed to carry weight here. "Come on, let's get you some shade and you can tell us what you need to when you're ready."

 

He offered Red a hand up, which she gracefully took, wincing as she put weight back on her feet. She'd been cleaning her glasses on her jumpsuit, probably not the best choice judging by the mud and dust that clung to it. The dirt stuck to her teeth, the corners of her mouth, her nostrils, and made a home for itself in her short, tight curls of inky hair. She'd been dragged through hell and back, quite literally if his own encounter with the Super Mutants was anything to go by. But she stood tall despite her obvious limping, undefeated by her experience. The teens watched her in silence, then followed her into the town hall like ducklings to their mother.

 

Arthur grasped his arm. "We don't have much time," he wheezed, still fighting to stabilize his breaths, "the Mutants will track us down, they're relentless."

 

"We'll stay here and keep watch," Dusty called from his position at the entrance. Did that boy ever sleep? He'd given up his seat in the shade of the porch for Francis, who was trying to avoid cooking any more of his flesh in the sun. "When they get here, we'll be ready."

 

Alfred nodded to them in thanks, then pushed Arthur through the door before he could protest.

 

In the dark of the building, the adolescents sat quietly on the floor. Red took up one of the two chairs in the main room, prizing the boots off her feet, no doubt rubbed raw from the trek across the desert. Arthur lowered himself shakily onto the other seat, ditching his equipment to the floor. Alfred gave them a moment to relax, leave their worries at the bridge, but Arthur's warning had spooked him; if the Mutants were on their trail, they needed to act fast if any of them wanted to see the next day.

 

"Well?" Flash asks at last, "What happened?"

 

Red looked up, catching his gaze, but looked away again, clenching her hand into a fist. "They locked us in cages, and took us out one by one. There was screaming, but no one came back." She laughed. "'Cept Shorty. He was giving them all kinds of crap before Eyebrows and Francis saved him."

 

"What about the others?" Kimba asked quietly.

 

The young woman said no more, just shook her head and sipped at her water. Under the angry sunburns on his cheeks and nose, Arthur appeared pale, sickly. "Dead, that much's certain," he sighed. "I don't know why. I don't think they ate them, there were- there were pieces everywhere, pieces of bodies."

 

Alfred walked over to stop him; they didn't need to live through it again if there was nothing useful to be said. "Can you still shoot straight, Art?" he asked him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked ready to puke, but nodded anyway. "Good. The rest of you, grab your guns and follow Ar- Eyebrows round the back to the trash pile, he's going to teach you to shoot."

 

A cheer erupted from the small group, excited at the prospect of playing with guns. They swarmed outside and set up a shooting range under Alfred's suggestion, gathering all the ammo within reach. The doctor hauled Francis along too, just as he was lighting a cigarette. "Hey! I'm trying to put my feet up here!" he snapped past the roll of paper.

 

"They've got a couple of robots," Alfred explained, "I want you to take a look at them."

 

The ghoul shook him off and pinched the smoke between his thumb and finger, jabbing it at him. "You wasted no time taking over while we were gone, huh?"

 

Alfred shoved him, creating some space between them. "Look, if those robots are working and someone here knows how to maintain them, then nobody will have the fight the Super Mutants again." He shrugged. "Or, we could stay here forever like a pack of guard dogs."

 

Francis returned the cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag on it, scanning the heaps of machinery with his eyes. "I can't promise anything," he grumbled, "but I'll see what I can do."

 

The first bursts of gunfire sounded from the makeshift firing range as Red saw to Shorty in the clinic. An assortment of bottles and tin cans, traffic cones and cooking pots were lined up on a plank of wood for the Big Towners to try and hit; Alfred swore he could see the objects tremble with fear. Arthur jumped from one kid to the next, adjusting their arm or giving them a tip for lining up their aim better. The vault dweller looked down at the pistol on his waist; he could use the practice too. He took his place at the end of the line, and held the firearm up in his right hand. Already he could feel the tendons straining as the muscles worked against the metals weight, and by the time he came to aiming at an empty bottle of Nuka Cola his wrist was twitching so bad he had no hope of hitting the damn thing.

 

"You need to work on your pose."

 

He lowered his arm and turned to see Arthur watching him from the sidelines. The gunman shook his head and limped closer. "There's no shame in using your other arm too, you know," he said, standing behind him and guiding his left arm into place to support the weight of the weapon; it twinged, but the pain was bearable. The proximity felt odd for Alfred, and he tensed as the other man pressed close to his back, peering over his shoulder to pick out a target. "Relax," Arthur whispered. "Take a deep breath, then pull the trigger when you exhale."

 

Unsure how any of this would make him shoot straight, Alfred did as he said. He took a deep breath, more concerned about steadying his heart rate than his aching arms, and pressed down on the trigger as he breathed out. There was a bang accompanied by the shattering of glass, and he dropped his arms to stare at the broken remains of the bottle, its top half blown into shards and scattered about the scrap heap. He gave a whoop of triumph, fist-pumping the air; since stepping out of the vault he hadn't managed to hit a target on the first shot until now.

 

Arthur laughed, applauding him. "Very good, now you just need to do it faster. Keep practicing."

 

Glowing from the praise, he turned back to the range and tried again, this time aiming for a can a little further away. He wasn't stand-off material just yet, it would take a lot of broken bottles and punctured tin cans to become a natural. While he continued his target practice, Francis managed to get the sentrybot up and running; he'd been left with Bittercup as his apprentice, as the others didn't trust her with a gun. He let her resurrect the protectron, guiding her with the hardwiring and basic programming required to get it back on its feet. Just in time too, because Dusty suddenly came tearing into the yard, shouting, "They're coming! The Super Mutants are here!"

 

The others tensed and stared at Alfred as if to say, "What do we do?" He himself was frozen; it had been easy to shoot tin cans and think they were doing something constructive, but now the moment was here and he was scared shitless that they weren't prepared at all. His mouth flapped open and shut for a couple of seconds, unsure what to say, when Francis saved his hide.

 

"Move out of the way, little ones," his decayed voice rattled, "let the robots through. They'll do all the heavy work." The sentrybot rolled past on its three struts, the wheels squeaking from the lack of oil; the protection followed behind, taking clunky, hesitant steps as it scanned for danger. They didn't look particularly stable, but it was better than nothing. The small troop of humans inched towards the barricade at the gate of the settlement, cradling their pistols in their hands, their last salvation if the automatons failed. They took up positions along the edges where the defenses were thickest and tallest, picking out good shooting spots through the holes in the pre-war cars and wire fencing.

 

Alfred hunkered down next to Arthur, reassured by his presence. He attempted to steady his nerves, watching the green dots draw closer. He checked and rechecked the magazine; it dawned on him that he could die, that so far he'd been incredibly lucky. If their defenses fell there would be nowhere to run; would he rather be bludgeoned to death or hauled off for God only knew what?

 

He cleared his throat. "Arthur?" he whispered. "What are our chances right now?"

 

The older man released a tense breath. "If we didn't have those robots, we'd be waiting for death."

 

"But?"

 

"But," he continued, combing over the words in his mouth before he spoke, "if they work, and if they do enough damage, then we might just do this."

 

Alfred nodded. "I sure hope so."

 

Their talk was interrupted by Flash's call. "Ready!"

 

The young medic cast his eyes down toward the shallow moat; the surface danced, disturbed by tremors reverberating through the ground. Soon he could feel the pounding through his feet, hear the guttural cries of the sickly brutes, then suddenly they were in sight. "Hold your fire," Arthur called from his right. "Wait 'til they're well in range."

 

_Breathe. Breathe,_ he repeated to himself, trying to hold his shoulders still as his body trembled. He spared a glance at the two robots; they were yet to open fire. With the Mutants closing in his finger closed tighter and tighter around the trigger. As the monsters filtered down to single file and took the first steps onto the bridge, the air ignited with lasers and bullets streaming from the two machines. Without waiting for Arthur's command the youths joined in, fueled by terror and spurred on by the promise of vengeance for their lost friends. "Concentrate fire on the one's at the back!" Arthur shouted, struggling to be heard over the drilling of the machine gun and the crack of pistols. From his spot by his side Alfred took on his advice and shot at the Super Mutants tailing the group, clambering over the bodies of their fallen brethren to get at the humans lurking behind the defenses.

 

Miss. Miss. Another Miss. Alfred stole a few seconds to steady his breath and reload his gun. He could do this. He returned his aim to the giants on the creaking bridge, supporting the weapon with both hands; with a target picked out he took a breath in, then out, and fired. The bullet sprang from its confines and embedded itself in the head of a Mutant, bringing the beast to the ground. He wasted no time in switching to a new target, popping as many pieces of lead into the avalanche of flesh as he could, praying they would hold them at bay.

 

Where were these things coming from? They must have a base to swarm them so strongly, at least a dozen having rained down upon the settlement at once, possibly with more to arrive. Alfred feared they would run out of ammunition before they could kill the last one, and where would that leave them? He'd lost count of how many had fallen; it didn't matter, more ploughed their way to the frontline. His heart died in his chest when he heard the grinding of gears and turned his head to see one of their robot sentinels sputter with smoke and collapse into the dust. With one less barrage of shots to deal with, the Mutants began to gain ground.

 

It was a couple of seconds before he realised Arthur was gone. He ceased shooting to look around in a panic, terrified that he'd find his mangled or hole-ridden body on the ground. Armed with a sawn-off shotgun and two bandoliers of shells, the gunman stood facing the bridge and the intruders, using the remaining robot for whatever cover he could get. He shot Alfred a glare that told him to get back to work. On the verge of puking, the young doctor returned to firing on the enemy; the more he could put down and give Arthur a fighting chance, the better.

 

Arthur was in his element. Fire roared in his veins and blazed in his eyes as he blasted round after round into the chests of the Mutants. With a clear shot and a powerful weapon, and some dodging of bullets, he managed to hit them in the chest with each shot; only a couple of shells were needed for each. In an instant it seemed, they were nothing but a pile of meat bleeding out into the water, adding to its revolting stench. The air cleared of gun smoke, growing still. Alfred pulled himself to his feet using the barricade, his legs turned to jelly from his squatting position, and edged his way to the heap.

 

Once he felt he could balance, he toed at one of the bodies, wrinkling his nose as the spongy flesh gave an inch or so under the pressure of his boot, a couple of the bulbous pustules on the skin popping and spilling forth a yellow mucus. They looked almost human, in the sense that they had two arms, two legs, two eyes and all the other important bits, but beyond that there was nothing familiar or brotherly about these creatures.

 

And yet.

 

He hadn't had time or a clear enough head to question it until now. 'Super Mutant'. Mutated from what exactly? As Alfred gazed down at the corpse, brow creased in thought, he found himself torn between reason and disbelief. Almost human, or no longer human?  The transformation would be astounding, impossible even in theory as far as he knew. Perhaps the reluctance to accept it came from within himself, from a point of bias that didn't want to think of these things as people, as individuals with families and friends and aspirations and memories. _Mutant_. The word swam around in his head. How? How could this have been a human being? What _happened_?

 

"I can't believe it." He turned to see Red by his side, also staring at the pile of bodies. "We did it. We actually did it."

 

"D'you think there'll be more?" Flash asked Arthur, who'd come over as well.

 

"Maybe," he said, curling his lip at the pool of near-black blood growing by their feet. "But I reckon they won't want to waste any more troops after these lot don't make it back."

 

"So we're safe?"

 

Arthur dropped the gun to his side with a weary sigh. "Safe enough."

\---

There was work to be done, though the teenagers seemed more eager to celebrate their new-found freedom than tidy up the mess of the battle. Francis and Bittercup set to work on repairing the fallen robot, and smoothing over the rough edges of the still-functioning one. Alfred helped move the bodies of the Super Mutants to the outskirts of the pre-war town, where hopefully they wouldn't be able to smell the carcasses as much in the afternoon heat. He and Flash joked about putting their damn heads on pikes as a warning, but the stench of bloating and rot had their stomachs flipping without taking a knife to the beasts’ necks. They scavenged what they could from them, taking a surprisingly successful haul of weapons and rags, though very little in terms of food and water; it seemed one of the Mutants had crushed a whole Molerat and stored it down the front of its torn pants.

 

A few untouched bottles of bleach had been left around Big Town, and the vault dweller decided it might be a good idea to cleanse the moat; the water wouldn't be drinkable, but it would become less of a cesspit and breeding ground for bacteria, not to mention alleviate the smell. The bridge was falling apart, ropes burned and snapped, some of the planks splintered by entry holes; once he and Flash were back inside the confines of the settlement it was tied off lest someone should fall into the water below. They could fix it later.

 

Arthur seemed grateful to have so many new gun parts to play with; he'd been quiet since the trip to German Town, though Alfred knew better than to ask for more details on what he'd seen in there. Instead he just let him tinker quietly under the shade of a porch, and went to see if Red needed any help at the clinic. He slipped through the door as quietly as possible, not wanting to potentially interrupt any important work. The young woman stood over the boy on the stretcher, glancing up at Alfred as he appeared, a stethoscope pressed to his chest. Alfred waited in the shadows, watching her examine her patient. After a couple of minutes she sighed, and removed the stethoscope from her ears. "He's not looking good," she admitted quietly. Her gaze didn't move from the unconscious body on the bed. "I should have been here."

 

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Alfred replied, moving over to join her. "You've been through hell. But those Mutants won't do this to anyone in this town ever again."

 

She nodded, but didn't look at him. He pretended not to notice the tears building in her eyes.

 

"Is there nothing we can do?" he asked.

 

She took a shaky breath, steeling herself and slipping back into her professional persona. "He needs a blood transfusion, and surgery to graft the thoracic tissue. I don't know if it will make a difference though."

 

Alfred offered a soft smile. "But it's worth a shot, right?"

 

Red had done this before, that much was certain. She had all the required tools set out on a tray in seconds. They lacked the hygienic scrubs provided in the vault, but there were a couple of fragile paper masks they could use to cover their mouths and noses. Thankfully, this wasn't a major operation in the sense they wouldn't be delving too deep into Timebomb's chest cavity or searching for stray shards of a bullet. A stimpak alone wouldn't fix this, and the kid would be bedridden for a few weeks minimum, if he ever woke up. After the initial queasiness from watching Red shave a patch of flesh from the thigh, Alfred settled into the role of assistant. This was outside of his experience, but Red required another pair of hands and he was the most qualified person for the job. He knew the theory, the terminology, he just had to hand the surgeon instruments and keep a watchful eye on the kid’s blood pressure as a pack drained into his artery.

 

The minutes dragged on, Red taking her time with each careful poke and prod. The lamplight dazzled Alfred’s eyes; he repeatedly caught his thoughts straying from the task at hand. He wondered if this would be enough to save Timebomb; the threat of infection from contaminated equipment and a dirty room was imminent, and there wasn't much they could do about any possible damage to his lungs. If he was brutally honest, he thought the boy was a lost cause, but Red needed to know she’d done everything in her power to save him.

 

The woman pulled the last stitch taught and snipped off the extra surgical thread. “There,” she sighed behind her face mask, “now all we can do is pray.”

 

As they tidied up the table, collecting tools to be washed in the remaining bleach, Alfred asked, “Do you believe in God?”

 

Red looked up, surprised by the question. She shrugged. “Not really, it’s just a figure of speech I suppose. What about you?”

 

“My dad always read me a passage from the Bible. ‘I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life, freely’.” He shook his head, lost in thought. Where was the old man now? He couldn’t imagine him faring any better out here, having spent all his life in Vault 101. “I guess it’s about charity or providence or something, but I guess faith died along with everything else in the war. Doesn’t seem like there’s a scrap of good out here sometimes.”

 

"I know. It's hard." She scrubbed at her hands in a bowl of clean water, lips pursed as her mind ticked over. "Ants."

 

He frowned, not following. "Ants?"

 

"Ants do this thing. It's called altruism. Individuals willingly put themselves in harm’s way to aid another in their colony." She turned around, drying her hands on a rag as she smiled back. "People do it too."

 

"Like Arthur and Francis coming to get you and Shorty?" he asked as he walked over to wash his own hands.

 

She nodded. "People do crazy things to save strangers, with no benefit to themselves. Goodness is still out there, but sometimes you've got to make some." She wandered over to their patient and lightly pressed two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. "He seems to be doing okay. We'll know by tomorrow morning."

 

“Why don’t you come and chill in the town hall for a while?” Alfred offered. “You’ve had it rough the last couple of days.”

 

“Thanks, but I’d feel better staying here with him. Maybe later,” she said. There wasn’t anything left to say. He dried his hands and headed off to find Arthur.

 

He’d migrated inside one of the buildings with his collection of junk and broken weapons, two bottles of beer already sat empty on the table. He didn’t acknowledge Alfred as he entered, even when the door closed heavily. The stale air and dim light did nothing to help the glum mood, casting a shadow on the gunman’s face that highlighted the dark circles under his eyes. When they travelled and fought together, he seemed invincible, but times like these, nestled between adventure and purpose, served as a reminder of how skinny his arms were, how tangled his hair was, how pale his skin was under all the grime. Alfred pulled a chair up across the table from him, casting his eyes over the collection of scrap, arranged into neat little heaps of the identical pieces. A rifle of some sort lay on the table in front of his companion, invaded by a screwdriver as he switched rusted parts out for new ones. The concentration on his face, the slight frown as he scrutinized the amalgamation of cast iron and varnished wood, set Alfred’s heart racing.

 

Growing uncomfortable in the silence, punctuated by the chink of metal against metal, he said, “You could have died.”

 

The tinkering stopped, then restarted, Arthur giving a shrug. “But I didn’t.”

 

“But you could have,” Alfred repeated, leaning on the back two legs of the chair. “I started to think you weren’t coming back.”

 

“You know me better than that,” he said, sparing a glance up to catch his eye.

 

Green.

 

His racing heart stopped.

 

Arthur’s expression switched to concern. “Are you okay?” he asked, extending a hand towards him, perhaps to check his temperature, or stroke his cheek.

 

Alfred reeled backwards to avoid his touch, almost toppling the chair to the floor with him on it. “Fine,” he chirped, and let the front legs of the chair slam back down. “What you doing, anyway?”

 

The gunman held the partly dismantled hunting rifle in the air, waving it around. “Well I figured if you need two hands to hold up a pistol, you may as well use something with a little more kick.” He stood and passed it over to the teen, taking advantage of his free hands to open another beer. The weapon was cobbled together, the different pieces of metal at different stages of rust and discolouration, but Alfred took it from his hands like holy relic. “What do you think? Too heavy for you? Or would you prefer a sub?”

 

He weighed it up, aiming it at the opposite wall. It was solid and hefty, yet balanced; not perfect by any means, but damn good considering it had been pieced together out of a dozen other guns. He handed it back with a smile to let him finish the job. “It’s great Arthur. Thanks.”

 

“Maybe you’ll actually hit something with this,” he muttered, a smirk tweaking his cheek.

 

Alfred pouted and slid halfway down his chair to nudge his foot under the table. “Hey man, I took out at least half of those things.”

 

“Funny, I could have sworn I was the one who jumped into the line of fire to save the day.”

 

Before he could stop himself, it slipped out. “You know, for someone who doesn’t care about anyone else, you’re a bit of a heroic type.”

 

Arthur tutted and took a swig of beer. “No I’m not.” When Alfred continued to stare him down, he snarled in frustration. “I’m not! I’m a cap-snatching, jet-sucking, alcoholic, selfish bastard.”

 

“Who rescues slaves and kids?”

 

“Yeah, because it’s the decent fucking thing to do.”

 

“And who rescues clueless young vault dwellers incapable of fending for themselves?”

 

Arthur looked ready to snap something witty or hurtful back at him, but instead clamped his mouth shut and focused all his attention on the rifle on the table. He refused to reply, responding to Alfred’s prods under the table with a sharp kick to the shin. Cursing himself and his fat mouth, Alfred sat in silence, glancing round the room for something to occupy himself with. In the end he settled for having a drink, he’d earned it after the past couple of days. He knocked the cap off on the edge of the table and pocketed it, thinking about a bowl of hot noodles or a plate of crispy squirrel bits he could buy from the Brass Lantern when they got back to Megaton. They were somewhere out west, that much was for sure; how far, he didn’t know. He hoped Arthur was just being pissy because he’d cornered him, and wasn’t actually mad, else it would make for a tense walk back. Though if he was still working on a new gun for him he couldn’t be too upset.

 

As the light faded he remained hidden in the house with him. Arthur didn’t ask him to leave, and he had nowhere else to be; he was happy enough sitting across from him, watching the gradual progress he made on the rifle. It felt like it was his tenth birthday again, being given his BB gun from dad and Jonas. Except instead of shooting radroaches he’d be shooting people. Images from his nightmare resurfaced; he pushed them out of his mind’s eye as best he could, but the constriction in his chest took longer to go away. He’d get over it in time. Or at least that’s what he wanted to believe, that the best way to deal with killing people was to kill more and more until the pain went away, until it was normal.

 

He grabbed a couple more beers and opened them, passing one to Arthur. They hadn’t spoken in hours but he took it with an appreciative nod. Wrapping his lips around the top, pouring the flat, golden liquid down his throat as quickly as his gag reflex would allow, he decided he liked his other option much better, washing away the memories with whatever booze he could get his hands on, even if it was just for tonight. “We should have a party tonight,” he said.

 

“And leave ourselves vulnerable to attack? That’s a terrible idea,” Arthur replied. He chuckled. “Sounds fun.”

 

Alfred downed the rest of his drink and pushed off from the table. “I’ll round up the others. Town hall in ten minutes?”

 

“You’re on.”

 

He bumped straight into Francis on the way out. “Hey, we’re having a party in the town hall. Interested?”

 

The ghoul wiped a hand down his face with a groan. “Honestly? I’m sick of you kids,” he grumbled, muttering something about Bittercup. “I need some downtime. I think there’s some jet left in Arthur’s bag.”

 

“Go wild, mate,” Arthur said, sliding the duffel bag across the floor. “I’m just clearing up here then heading over. Don’t cry when I’m gone.”

 

“Not even tears of joy?”

 

Shaking his head, Alfred left them to get on with their play fight. The sun was hidden behind the distant hills, its light scattered into a blazing fire of red and orange across the wispy, cloud-streaked sky, the first stars poking through to shine their brilliant light. He was yet to grow tired of the sky, of its colours and shapes and infinity; when he was so used to staring at a steel ceiling, the vast expanse of blue or violet or black made him feel free, but also tiny. He knew every nook and cranny of Vault 101 be it from hiding from Butch and his friends or exploring the winding corridors with Amata. Up here, he’d never map out his whole world, no matter how many locations he filled in on his pip-boy. It was scary, but also liberating; he was so insignificant, but that also meant he could do whatever he wanted without someone coming to find him.

 

Finally pulling his gaze down from the heavens, he checked around for the Big Towners and let them in on the plan; they were eager to drink away the memories of the past few months, and to do so in peace and safety. The last one he checked on was Red; she was still sat in the clinic by Timebomb’s side, though had treated herself to lighting a lamp to read by. He knocked lightly on the inside of the door for her attention. “Hey Red? The rest of us are having a little celebration. Want to come?”

 

She set the book aside and pushed her glasses up to rub at her tired eyes. “What time is it?”

 

“Gone nine.”

 

She sighed and looked back to the boy on the stretcher. “Thanks, but I’d feel better staying here with him. In case he wakes up.”

 

_Or doesn’t_ , he couldn’t help but think. “Well, you know where we are if you want a break.” He was about to leave when another voice cut through the darkness.

 

“Hey asshole, least you could do is give me a hand.”

 

Admittedly, his sight wasn’t great in plain daylight, but through the dim lighting of the room he’d managed to miss the other boy sat in the corner with his leg propped up, a cast set around it. “Shorty?”

 

The dark-haired boy glowered at him somewhat, shuffling around to find his feet. “Yeah, can’t have you forgetting about me, like in the fight.”

 

“Shorty,” Red warned, “I couldn’t let you help out with a shattered leg.”

 

“Whatever,” he said, attempting to stand.

 

Alfred rushed over. “You really shouldn’t be up and about on this, you know.”

 

“You’re telling me – hurts like a bitch! But I ain’t missing this party for the world, not after what those Mutants did to us. ‘Bout time we fought back.”

 

Alfred glanced at Red, who could only respond with a sympathetic shrug. He sighed and threw one of the boy’s arms over his shoulder, helping him to hop out the building. “You’re all fire, aint’cha?”

 

By the time they lurched through the door of the town hall, Arthur was handing random bottles of alcohol to a group of overexcited and inexperienced teenagers. Alfred nearly dropped his charge. “Is that really a good idea?” he asked, helping Shorty to a chair. He spied Bittercup with a bottle of whiskey and dreaded what advances were to come.

 

Arthur, who was already feeling the effects of those beers judging by his flushed cheeks and careless grin, waved him off. “These kids have had a hard time! Let them blow off some steam, have some fun.”

 

“You’re the best Eyebrows,” Dusty said as he clinked bottles with a few of the others.

 

“Don’t act so high and mighty, Alfred,” the gunman said to him as he passed him a glass of vodka. “You’re not much older than them.” He looked him up and down, and snorted. “And way more sheltered.”

 

Alfred narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sheltered,” he spat.

 

“No, no. You’ve been _literally_ sheltered – in an underground nuclear bomb shelter.”

 

“Yeah?” Alfred scoffed, and raised the glass to his lips. “Well not anymore.” Bracing himself for the burn, he knocked as much of the vodka back as he could, but underestimated terribly how much had been poured and started choking on the stuff. Its fiery vapours lodged in his throat and when he finally regained his breath he found himself gagging on the taste.

 

Arthur snickered into the bottle which held the rest of it. “Smooth.”

 

He’d have happily spent the evening arguing with the ex-slave and challenging him to a fist-fight or thumb-war, whichever he reckoned he could win easier, but each drink he found himself wanting more of the stuff. The atmosphere was contagious and rowdy; in a more sensible state he’d beg them to quieten down lest they draw attention to themselves across the desert. The general consensus, however, was that they had robot guards to protect them now and for the first time since Arthur and the salvage parties disappeared, so they could break out the alcohol stockpile and go wild. It soon became apparent that this was the first time a few of the Big Towners had drank; Kimba barely touched her beer, complaining of the taste, while Shorty knocked back whiskey until he was numb. Being trained in the medical profession, Alfred worried like a mother, petrified that the boy would try to walk on his bad leg or worse, fall and break the other one. Arthur knew his audience though and as a rare reminder of his youth suddenly suggested, “Let’s play a game.”

 

Alfred’s breath lodged in his chest. “What sort of game?” he asked warily, praying it wasn’t a drinking game. He told himself it was because the youths weren’t used to heavy drinking, that they should take it easy; he knew deep down it was because he couldn’t handle his liquor though.

 

The gunman shrugged. “Whatever they want to play.”

 

“Kiss or Kill!” Bittercup blurted out.

 

“You would pick that,” someone tutted.

 

Not wanting to be heckled for his ignorance, Alfred sat down in the circle and pretended to know the rules. It was simple enough; they went around the circle and gave the person next to them two ‘love interests’, both terrible, and they had to decide which one they’d rather fight to the death and thus which one they had to make out with. Deathclaw and Super Mutant, Slaver and ghoul (thank God Francis wasn’t around to hear that one); the fun came with the horror of the player being interrogated, or their disturbing response. A few rounds in and somebody decided it would be interesting to add a new rule stating other players had to drink if they disagreed with the person’s choice; naturally, that meant the weirder responses got chosen again and again.

 

Eventually, Alfred decided they’d better change games before someone threw up, namely himself. “Come on, let’s play something else already!” he shouted above the noise. He’d cranked the volume of his pip-boy as high as it would go, filling the room with the perky tunes of Enclave Radio. It was no GNR, but it was all they had this far out from D.C..

 

“Blind date!” Kimba shrieked; she’d given in to peer pressure a while ago and made her way through a few drinks.

 

He stayed in the background as much as possible for the first go, watching as the girl volunteered to having a rag tied over her eyes, spun round several times, and left to sense her way around the room and find somebody to kiss. What was with these kids and kissing? He made sure to turn the music off his pip-boy and stay behind her at all times. It was mean in a way, avoiding her like this and snickering at her blind stumbling, but undeniably fun. What was even crueler was how they pushed the quiet boy Pappy, whom he’d barely noticed, into her arms, sacrificing one of the group in a bid for survival. Being on the older end of the crowd, he found it more awkward than exciting to see two strangers smooch. He was occupying himself by looking in the opposite direction when someone nominated him.

 

They pounced on him before he had chance to put up a fight, tying the blindfold tightly over his glasses and around his head. With no way of seeing he had no choice but to let them spin him on the spot, so many hands grabbing and pushing him he couldn't count them. Then all of a sudden they were gone, and he was alone; he could hear the laughter, and reached out towards it, almost tripping over his own feet from the dizziness. Swiping a hand down through the air he just brushed someone's clothes, but missed. He kept moving in that direction until he touched the flat expanse of the wall, and turned around, following the sounds of footsteps and hushed, tipsy giggling as best he could. He found himself grinning; it was the first time he remembered having fun since leaving Vault 101. At first he'd found it odd that a bunch of teens and adolescents refused to grow up, only giving up their childhood games when staring death in the face. But now he understood; in here, poisoned by alcohol and amongst the closest things to friends, he could forget about the world, about the Super Mutants, about the Slavers. He didn't have to worry about where his next meal would come from, or how high his radiation levels were getting. Everything was okay.

 

He had a fistful of clothing, but the captive managed to escape his grasp with an overexcited squeal. He turned around once more, growing a tad frustrated; he didn't like being laughed at. He was determined to get someone, and they’d pay for showing him up like this. Carefully, he moved back into what he thought was the centre of the room, and waited. The others became quiet, and he knew it wouldn't be long until someone tried their luck to tap him on the shoulder, desperate to get a response from him. It finally came; someone pushed him from one side and, while he didn't manage to get a hold of them, he fell into someone and accidentally pinned them to the wall. While his shoulder dug into their chest or stomach – he couldn’t tell - he found his bearing and searched for their wrists, holding them tight so they were unable to escape. _Gotcha'!_

 

His aim was a little off as he dived in for a kiss, lips planting on their chin, but quickly corrected himself and by God he put on a show, at least to the best of his abilities, earning a mixture of cheers, laughter and exclamations from the group. He hadn't kissed anyone since eighth grade, and thus hadn't the experience beyond mashing his lips against the other person's. They were frozen, neither protesting nor reciprocating. Alfred only stopped when the blindfold was pulled off his head, skewing his glasses and leaving his hair stuck up in several places. But he looked more collected than the deep flush and startled gaze that Arthur wore, staring back at him over mere inches. "Oh," was all the teen could say. He realised now might be a good time to put some space between them and stepped away; the others had gone back to the game without them.

 

Arthur cleared his throat and picked up a half-drunk bottle of rum off the table. “I’m going to check on Francis,” he said quietly, avoiding his gaze as he aimed for the door. But his escape plan was cut short by Dusty spewing on the floor. Arthur huffed, clearly done. “Alright, time out people! I think everyone’s had enough. Someone clean this up while I take him to Red.”

 

Alfred decided to make himself scarce, having no intention of mopping the acrid soup up, and set to work confiscating all the drinks he could find. He almost tripped on Shorty’s outstretched legs; the kid had apparently passed out without anyone noticing. A spike of concern shot through the medic’s chest and he gave him a light, then vigorous shake in an attempt to rouse him. The boy frowned and grumbled something that sounded like, “Fuck off,” before shifting in the chair to find a new position. Satisfied that he was just sleeping and not unconscious, Alfred continued his job until the room was cleared. With nowhere else to dispose of it, he poured the last drops of booze into the moat; the drinks were worthless now the stoppers were out the bottles. He ditched the glass around the back of the buildings for future firing practice, and headed back indoors.

 

Arthur had returned to the others, all of them bedded down on scavenged mattresses and moth-eaten blankets strewn across the floor. As if nothing had happened, Arthur quietly spoke to him as he found a spot to sleep. “I left him with Red. She prescribed him some water, a lie-down, and a smack across the head in the morning.”

 

Alfred shrugged, climbing under the tangled sheets of his bed. “Bound to happen to someone. I’m just glad it wasn’t me.”

 

“Told you you’re sheltered.”

 

He declined the chance to comment, lying down on the pancake-flat mattress, its springs permanently compressed after decades of use. This was nice, having somewhere safe to sleep, surrounded by people who weren’t going to murder him. Best of all he knew Arthur was safe, rather than scouring the Wasteland somewhere in search of caps or justice. He was going to tell him so, but when he looked over the rows of sleeping teenagers between them, he saw the gunman was already asleep.

 

“Goodnight, Arthur,” he whispered, and let himself relax.

\---

_Hands grabbing at his legs as he ran. People screaming. Blood pouring over a pink sundress, over his hands where he clutched a knife. The sharp edges of a shattered mirror and a groaning locker. Vibrations, then-_

Alfred jerked awake, flinging his arms up to shield his face. Breaths coming fast, he soon remembered where he was. Although he knew he was perfectly safe, he didn’t move his arms away on the off-chance the reanimated corpse of one of his victims at Paradise Falls was standing over him. He only managed to build up the courage and just do it when he heard someone whimpering.

 

Once he managed to escape from the knot of sheets he rolled himself onto his front and got onto all fours, swaying a bit from the alcohol still in his system, and carefully moved over towards the sound. In the pitch black he thought he might plant a hand on someone’s face by accident, but he made it over to the squirming form without incident. They muttered in protest and flinched left and right; it seemed he wasn’t the only one having nightmares. Gingerly, he shook their shoulder in an attempt to rouse them. “Hey, it’s okay, wake up,” he whispered, unsure if this was the right thing to do.

 

A few seconds of this was enough to bring them out of the mists of sleep. They bucked upright, crying out, then fell back onto their mattress; they sounded as though they were trying to fight off sobs. Alfred tried again. “It’s alright, it was just a bad dream. It’s okay.”

 

“Alfred?”

 

He frowned. It was Arthur. “Yeah. Sorry, I saw you tossing and turning and I thought-“

 

“No, thanks, I needed that,” he whispered groggily, forcing his breathing to level out as he wiped at his face. “Did I wake you up?”

 

“No, I had a nightmare.” He still couldn’t see. The light was out, maybe someone had switched it off after getting up for the toilet, but the moon and stars offered little through the curtains. He wasn’t sure how much room there was, but he squeezed onto the mattress by the ex-slave’s side. “Can I stay here?”

 

After one or two unsuccessful pats with his hand, Arthur lazily stroked through his hair. “Mm,” was all he said in reply, sounding half asleep already. Once he was sure he was off again, Alfred placed an arm over his chest and snuggled close to him, feeling protected from the lurking monsters.

 

\---

 

He would never drink again.

 

He’d heard of the pounding headache associated with hangovers; though he’d pushed the knowledge to the back of his mind, he was expecting it the night before but stubbornly pressed on with the vodka despite it. While his frontal lobe hammered at the inside of his skull from the dehydration, it was nothing compared to the intense nausea gripping his stomach. Just rolling onto his other side had him retching. He dared not get up and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t be able to hold any water to quench his dried mouth. The sensation may have been wildly different, but he could honestly say he preferred being shot.

 

Squinting through the morning - or more likely afternoon - light, he saw the Big Towners still out for the count. Something was awry though. In its pained state his mind couldn’t work on finding an answer, and decided to work it out later and pulled the sheets over his head. What he wouldn’t give to have his dad bring him a coffee, or to get a greasy, filling breakfast at the push of a button. Instead he’d have to swig from a bottle of dirty water and, if he was lucky, chew on the rubbery, desiccated remains of a boxed Salisbury steak.

 

Two hours of trying to wait out the consequences of a crazy night and he accepted it wasn’t going to get any better without drinking something, specifically something non-alcoholic. After dragging himself to the kitchen he pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, merely a room-temperature storage facility without electricity. He was so thirsty. Waking up in the desert with a headache was bad enough but a hangover made it nearly unbearable. Once more his lack of forethought backfired, and he found himself vomiting in the sink, his sensitive stomach almost folding itself inside out in protest of being filled. Unable to gather enough saliva to spit, he took another swill, gagging on the brown liquid, and rinsed his mouth out. “Never again,” he huffed, rubbing at his still thumping forehead.

 

Despite the nasty taste in his mouth, he felt a little better and weaved his way back to his bed. That was when he noticed Arthur was gone. There were only so many places he could be, it wasn’t as if he and Francis would just up and leave. _Or would they?_ He hopped over the sleeping adolescents towards the door and stepped into the white hot light.

 

It was strange seeing Big Town so quiet; all its inhabitants were flat out rather than wandering or moping around, only the robots standing sentinel at the bridge. The world was still, save for an indecisive breeze stroking at the desiccated remains of shrubs in the dirt. The silence reminded him exactly where he was, a little patch of shade in the expanse of the Wasteland; nothing was alive around them, at least nothing he wanted to stumble across. He took a moment to orientate himself using the map on his Pip-boy; the device placed him somewhere north of Springvale, the town on the doorstep of Vault 101, and he felt a stab of disappointment at himself. He’d been out here a while now, traversed this barren, alien world, and not made a single step of progress. Maybe if he knocked really loud and asked politely he’d be let back inside the vault. It seemed the only thing he was good at was wasting time.

 

The sun began to burn at his scalp, and he sought shelter in the house opposite to the town hall, where they’d left the ghoul to his jet habit the night before. Upon closing the door behind him he was greeted by a set of green eyes inches from his own, half hidden under a scowl. “What are you doing, sneaking around?” Arthur asked, snapping the rifle in his hand closed.

 

“Looking for you,” Alfred swallowed, stepping back to create some space but finding his back against the door. He glanced around the room in search of Francis; the pre-war scientist was slumped against the wall, sleeping off a night of chems next to a pile of presumably empty canisters.

 

It was as if Arthur was back to his old self, the cold, sharp, cynical bastard who’d torn apart a raider camp for the fun of it first, and to rescue him second. There was no mention of their brief conversation in the middle of the night, nor the drunken kiss Alfred had unknowingly forced upon him. He shoved the gun into his hands. “Here, kid. I was about to get you for target practice.”

 

“O-Okay.”

 

Arthur yanked the door open, but paused to look him up and down. “You feeling alright, kid?”

 

Alfred took a deep breath. “Yeah, just a little queasy is all.”

 

Arthur led him back to the firing range; though the older man was more skilled at hiding it, he appeared to be nursing a headache as well, and had the foresight to bring a supply of water and med-x for their ailments. He gave the teen a quick rundown on how to hold and reload the weapon, then told him to get shooting. The assorted items danced around the iron sights; Alfred wasn’t certain if it was down to the added weight of his new firearm or if he was swaying on the spot. He heard the flick of a match somewhere behind him as Arthur lit a cigarette, and knew if he didn’t hurry up he’d get a beating off the sniper. He gripped the stock tighter and glared down the top of the barrel; what was Arthur’s problem? He thought they were starting to get along. Hell, he even called him ‘Al’ but now they were back at square one with ‘kid’, the guy exercising some weird power play over him – and it pissed him right off.

 

Under a sudden wave of anger he took aim at an empty bottle of vodka and squeezed the trigger. He didn’t see it shatter but heard it, too focused on the violent kickback into his shoulder of the arm he was shot in just a few days ago. As he cursed and clutched at the bruising area, Arthur sidled over and tutted. “That’s what happens if you don’t hold it properly,” he berated him, and half-heartedly kicked his foot. “Again.”

 

“Give me a break,” Alfred growled, more about the man’s attitude than the shooting lesson.

 

On the bright side, the throbbing pain in his shoulder helped to distract him from the symptoms of his hangover, and he soon fell into a rhythm of aim, fire, reload. Although it was heavier altogether, the rifle delivered much more damage when he managed to hit the target; his accuracy was improving too, but only gradually. They must have been outside a couple of hours by the time Red approached, a smile on her face.

 

“That kid, Arthur,” she beamed, pointing at Alfred, “that kid is a saint. Keep him safe, ya’ hear?”

 

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. “Why? What’s he done?”

 

Red marched right up to Alfred and grabbed his hand, shaking it. “It’s Timebomb, he’s not only alive, but he’s awake! Just sat up and asked me what time it was, like he’d had a nap or somethin’!”

 

Not one for formalities, Alfred threw his arms around her and laughed. “See? I knew you could do it.”

 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said, squeezing him back. “Thank you, thank you.”

 

“Well I guess you’re not entirely useless then,” he heard Arthur sigh.

 

He turned around, waggling the rifle in his hand. “You know, _Eyebrows_ , it’s probably not a good idea to piss off someone you’ve been teaching to shoot straight.”

 

“ _Boys_ ,” Red warned them, “cut it out. I should thank you too, Arthur. I’d be dead if you and Francis hadn’t come to rescue us, we all would.”

 

“Hey,” Arthur said, actually smiling, “we’re family. It’s nothing.”

 

Red reached for his arm. “Then stay,” she begged. “We need to rebuild this place, make it livable again.”

 

Alfred watched as Arthur struggled to form words; he didn’t want to stay, that was for sure. Perhaps he’d felt he’d outgrown this place, that is was a shadow from his not-so-distant past, from a different self. “I can’t,” he said at last. “I’m sorry.”

 

The woman didn’t press him for the reason why. She nodded. “At least stay a few more days while we get back on our feet, that’s all I ask. We can help you out with supplies and you can be on your way.”

 

“Red,” Arthur replied, “I’d do it for free.”

 

Despite his claim, they agreed on a payment of rations and stimpaks in exchange for spending the rest of the week rebuilding Big Town from the ground up. A passing trade caravan was able to give them a sum of caps for the collection of firearms Arthur had refurbished, which went towards restocking the pantries with enough food for breakfast, lunch and dinner for weeks to come. Their main problem was water. The dregs of the Potomac River lay a few miles north-west, under the bridge they first fought the Mutants at. Now the area was cleared of roving green monsters, taking trips with buckets and waterskins would be easy enough, if only they had a place to store it. Francis, self-proclaimed genius that he was, drew up the schematics for a water tank and purifier; it wasn’t anything fancy like the pressurised pipes in Megaton, but they’d be able to pump clean water on demand. The ghoul orchestrated Arthur and Alfred in the heavy work, most of the metal coming from cars they dismantled, and pointed out the finer details of engineering to Bittercup, teaching her how to patch up any future leaks that were certain to spring up. The trio would be long gone before the thing was running properly, but once they had water they could grow crops, leaving them with more caps to spend on ammo for protecting themselves.

 

Arthur kept up the shooting lessons with military discipline; everyone showed up on time or they’d be sleeping outside the walls, as he promised. Nobody tested his word, though as the closest thing to a father-figure, Alfred imagined the kids held enough respect for him not to disobey. He, on the other hand, tried to rest up his arm as much as possible once Red fixed it up, before his life depended on it working again. He found less tiresome work in training a couple of the other Big Towners the basic medical skills of disinfecting and sewing wounds, administering correct doses, and homemade remedies to bites from wildlife. If he could take the weight off Red’s shoulders, not to mention create a back-up if she went missing again, he was confident they’d all still be alive next time they paid a visit.

 

After an ample rest from the hardship of the Wasteland, it was time to set off again; if they didn’t leave now they never would. As they walked the rope bridge out of town, newly built and reinforced, he saw Arthur hesitate at the threshold. The last time he’d left to explore the desert he’d been snatched by cruel hands and forced into a bomb collar. There was that temptation, no matter how adventurous his soul, to stay where he knew was safe, or at least safer. Just as Alfred began to think he’d choose to stay, the gunman took a deep breath and carried on walking, not looking back as his friends – his family – waved them off. “Come on,” he said. “I want to be halfway there by sundown.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *smashes champagne bottle against the Vault 101 door* LET THE SEXUAL TENSION BEGIN!
> 
> I really like this chapter tbh; I thought the idea of Little Lamplight and Big Town were awesome in FO3, and had some really great characters that I wanted to play with. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it – even if it gave me block after block (ʘ‿ʘ✿) Now back to writing the next chapter. And Happy New Year! xxxxx


	8. But One Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna remind people that this fic is graphically violent from start to finish, seeing as this chapter has a few of those sort of scenes. Nothing particularly grotesque in this chapter (just the usual), but everyone is ready to kill each other in the Wasteland and I thought it was only fair to remind you in case you don’t like that sort of thing. In this universe, your innocent little babies are in fact shooting, stabbing and bludgeoning other people to death – but isn’t that what fanfiction is all about? :)

 

His body seemed to finally be getting used to this life. A week of sleeping indoors plenty of time to relax had weakened his resistance against the white sun and the hard earth, but after a few hours of marching eastwards he began to harden to it once more. They didn’t admit it, but Alfred was certain his travelling companions were also bearing the brunt of letting their guard down. Arthur wasn’t as alert as usual, and between the other two’s bad eyes they were reliant on him to spot any threats and take them out before they got close; he’d let two molerats, an ant, and a small radscorpion close enough that he had to use his shotgun to dispose of them rather than the sniper rifle. They had been on the move for only a few hours when they unanimously decided to rest at the next suitable location they came across. The trail of tarmac they followed eventually led to a pre-war neighbourhood, demolished by nuclear fire all those decades ago. Hoping to conserve the supplies donated by their friends in Big Town, they fanned out in search of water and preserved food.

 

The grocery store had been picked clean; it made sense, given the town sat astride a road frequently trekked by caravans and mercenaries. “There’s got to be something of use around here,” Arthur grumbled, peering into an empty can before tossing it aside. Their salvage bags were empty having traded their collection before moving out; if they could gather another haul by the time they reached Megaton they could potentially double their caps.

 

“Food and water are the obvious ones, right?” Alfred replied. “What else does a town need?”

 

Arthur thought for a moment. “I bet there’s a stash of medicine somewhere around here,” he said, leading the way to the door. It didn’t take them long to find a pharmacy, a faded poster of a stimpak displayed outside; it was false advertising though, the place had been thoroughly ransacked. The windows were smashed, glass cracking beneath their boots and they searched inside, yellowed magazines scattered across the floor in front of nearly empty shelves.

 

What Arthur cast aside as worthless junk Alfred considered taking with them; the necessities of the old world were still prevalent in Vault 101, though their supplies had been running low as long as he could remember. Toothbrushes, band aids, wrist and ankle supports were all in high demand, if you knew where to sell. “We could stop by my vault on the way back,” he suggested, following Arthur’s trial of apathy and collecting the final pickings of the store. “They’d love to get their hands on some of this stuff.”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” the older man tutted, “they won’t open up, they never do.”

 

Alfred stopped. “Why do you always do that?” he seethed.

 

Arthur carried on, dismissing the items on the shelves without bothering to check the labels; if it wasn’t a stimpak or a chem, he wasn’t interested. “Do what?”

 

“Criticise me, all the time. I can’t do anything right with you around.”

 

“When you pull your weight and stop spouting useless shit, maybe I’ll ease off,” he answered, then looked over his shoulder at him. “Or maybe I won’t. Don’t take it so bloody personally, me and Francis are always at each other’s throat.”

 

Alfred bit his tongue and continued searching for anything he recognised. “Yeah, but you two know you’ve got each other’s backs, and I’m just- I don’t know.” He threw a couple of bottles in his bag and tugged the chord tightly closed, heading for the door. “No one cares about me.”

 

“Get over yourself,” Arthur snorted, following him out. “So your daddy ran off and left you, so what? When you get collared like an animal, then come and talk to me about no one caring. It’s a cruel fucking world outside your little vault, so you’d better get used to it.”

 

Part of the brick wall next to Alfred’s head exploded in a red cloud of dust and razor fragments. His hands flew up to shield his head and face as they ducked back behind the wall. The assault continued, bullets flying through the doorway where they had stood. Alfred’s heart leaped to double its pace as he grabbed his rifle and waited for the shots to cease. He looked over to Arthur, sheltering on the other side of the entrance; an air of calm surrounded him as he patiently waited for the opportunity to return fire. The moment the last bullet rang past he leaned around the corner and picked out one of the raiders who had appeared out of nowhere. With a deep breath the vault dweller joined him, taking repeated shots at a raider stood in the street. Inevitably they had to reload, giving their enemies a chance to move in. With his extensive experience of these situations, Arthur was back to firing in seconds, holding them back long as he could.

 

They were outnumbered, the raiders having double the manpower. Their sporadic firing had little effect as they ducked behind the shells of cars or hid inside the buildings on the opposite side of the road; sounds of gunshots echoed from further away, signalling that they’d found their friend, too. Arthur managed to take a chunk out of one at the back, but the pair in the road were too close and moved too quickly to hit. By the time Alfred made his second reload, Arthur began his fourth attack but missed both targets. “Wait,” he hissed, holding a hand up to Alfred for him to hold back from firing. Torn, Alfred pressed his back against the wall and listened to the footsteps coming closer and closer. There had to be an exit through the back of the building, or maybe they could retreat upstairs, but Arthur remained squatting next to the door, shotgun in hand. As the raiders approached Alfred found himself backing away into the shadows, having no intention of being caught.

 

The first raider didn’t get chance to look around the store; the moment her head popped inside it was blown to pieces by one of Arthur’s shells. A second raider appeared. Arthur fired but missed, swore, and scrabbled to get away but the man grabbed his arm. Alfred moved to help him only to collide with a third person coming through the entrance. He hesitated for a moment, spotting the knife in the man’s hand, and dodged his attack, launching himself over the counter and putting a barricade between them as he frantically searched for a weapon, his rifle dropped and forgotten by the door. But there were only boxes and plastic bottles of pills to throw at his attacker as he circled round to the gate. An empty case sat on the wall, the glass smashed long ago and the fire axe taken from within, but the rolled up hose remained. Alfred gave it a yank, freeing up some of the length, and took a swing with the metal nozzle; it didn’t do much to hurt but tangling them up gave him time to climb back over the counter again.

 

He spared a glance Arthur’s way. He and the raider had lost their firearms and were having it out with their fists, elbows, and knees, using every dirty trick in the book. The gunman’s slight form made him agile enough to avoid most of the attacks, but once he was grabbed by the throat and pinned against the wall he was helpless to overpower the more muscular man.

 

His own opponent was gaining ground on him again, and he swooped down to pick up his rifle, grasping it by the barrel end. With a carefully timed eye and all the strength he could muster he swung it through the air, the wooden butt connecting with the man’s face and sending him stumbling. Hands shaking, Alfred turned the weapon in his hands and fired point-blank at his head. Not wishing to observe the carnage he’d created, he flung the rifle aside and ran to Arthur’s aid. His companion had been lifted off the ground, his assailant digging his thumbs under his jaw and gripping his neck like a dogs locked bite in an attempt to cut off blood and air. Judging by the growing paleness of his skin and the blue tinge of his lips, it was working.

 

Alfred barrelled into the man, tackling him around the waist and sending them both to the floor. He’d been in this situation before, and tried to sit astride his body and deliver a punch to his face; he hadn’t realised just how strong the raider was though, and was easily thrown off and instead made the victim himself, taking blow after relentless blow to the face, the first strike knocking the glasses straight off his face. Choking on the blood running down the back of his throat, Alfred snapped his head forward and managed to smack his forehead into the man’s face, and took the opportunity to scoot away for room to breathe. “Little fucker,” he spat down at him, dragging him back into place and landing another punch. He hadn’t taken a beating like this since he told Butch to get off Amata’s back on the morning of the G.O.A.T. exam, earning him an ass-kicking by three other teenage boys followed by a trip to the clinic, though he had a feeling this one wouldn’t end as kindly.

 

When he thought he’d had as much as he could take, he caught sight of Arthur rushing towards them with a metal pole torn from the innards of the building. He batted it across the raider’s head, knocking him off of Alfred, and without a second to breathe, brought the end down through his stomach, skewering him to the floorboards. The man howled, clawing at the metal but unable to yank it free, his hands slipping on the blood.

 

Violently coughing, Arthur retrieved his shotgun from the ground, loading it with another shell. “Quit whining,” he rasped, and shot the final round into his skull. He dropped the gun by his side and rubbed at his throat, coughing again as he knelt next to Alfred. “You alright?”

 

Stunned, his face throbbing, his limbs twitching with the overdose of adrenaline in his system, Alfred couldn’t respond. He blew air out of his nose, more blood spraying onto his vaultsuit, stark crimson against bright blue. Arthur helped him to sit up and lean forward, and wiped his mouth and chin clean with a rag, avoiding his nose, definitely broken. The exchange of shots in the next street continued, though they dropped in number; it seemed to be just Francis and one last raider.

 

Arthur bit his lip. “Will you be alright here if I go and help out?” he asked Alfred, holding his shoulders to keep him steady. The answer was clear to them both: no. But Alfred knew he’d be quick, and nodded, slowly regaining the ability to process what was going on around him. Once he was propped up in a corner, Arthur snuck out with his weapon to dispatch of the last raider. Alfred must have drifted off because the next thing he knew he was being shaken, a pair of fingers snapping in front of his eyes.

 

“Stay with me, Al,” came Arthur’s voice out of the darkness. “He’s hurt bad. What do we do?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Med-X,” Alfred managed to say; God, his face hurt.

 

He heard one of them rustling about in a bag. He didn’t flinch as the needle was pressed into his vein, happily soaking up the numb haze that swept through his body. Francis and Arthur continued talking, but he paid them no heed, slipping back into a comfortable half-sleep as the pain subsided. He later became aware of a dragging sensation on his body, pulling him down, and worked out he was being carried somewhere; he tried to ask what was happening, but couldn’t get his mouth to cooperate. When he was set down again his head was propped up by a pillow of some sort, someone combing his hair back with their fingers. He’d missed this, being taken care of; his dad would bring him soup if he was sick, and checked his temperature frequently despite having work to do at the clinic. Sometimes he would pretend to be ill just for the attention. But now he was a patient for real.

 

After an eternity of stillness, of calm oblivion, his head began to pound again, and he cracked his eyes open. It was dark now, and his companions had set up a campfire in an alleyway in an attempt to both keep warm but hide their location. They were both smoking. Alfred sat up and wiped down his face, wincing as the pain flared in his nose and cheeks. “ _Ow._ ”

 

Arthur turned to look at him; the teen swore he saw relief on his face, but it might have been a trick of the flickering light. “Oh, you’re awake,” he sighed, stubbing the cigarette out on the ground. His voice was still strained, drifting out in places.

 

“How’re you feeling?” Francis croaked, shielding his light from the breeze.

 

Grunting against the ache in his arms, back, and legs, Alfred twisted himself round to face the two of them; he almost touched his nose again, forgetting why it hurt so much in the first place. He bet his face was nice and bruised; pity, the mark Arthur left after punching him at Paradise Falls had just started to fade. “Rough,” he said, carefully weighing up his condition. “But better than I was before. I kinda wanted him to finish the job.”

 

“Don’t joke,” Arthur chastised him, shaking his head before asking, “Hungry?”

 

Alfred nodded, and the ghoul poured something hot into a metal cup and passed it to him. “You took quite a beating kid,” he growled, stirring the contents of the pot over the fire. “We were about to place bets on whether or not you’d wake up.”

 

“Sounds about right,” he joked, taking a sip. He suppressed a shudder at the vile, sweaty taste assaulting his tongue, and although he was grateful for the warmth in his stomach he dared not ask what the ‘soup’ was. His upper lip, even his teeth, stung at the light pressure of the tankard against his mouth. At least the swelling in most of his face had gone down. But something was missing. “Hey, have you seen my glasses?”

 

Arthur flung a flimsy collection of wire and glass at him; the lenses were more scratched than ever, one of them cracked, a piece missing from the edge. “That guy did a number on them I’m afraid. Think you can get by without them?”

 

“I suppose I’ll have to,” he grumbled, twisting the arm between his fingers. He had another pair in his house in Megaton, but these had belonged to Jonas; the man was like an uncle to him, working with his dad ever since he could remember, and died to protect them both. “What now?”

 

“We can afford to rest another day if you want,” Arthur replied. “But if you want to see a doctor we can head out in the morning.”

 

Alfred thought about it. There wasn’t much a doctor could do for him, he just had to hope his nose would set in way which wouldn’t hamper his breathing, or dashingly good looks. He was more concerned about Arthur; he must have been suffering but too proud to admit it. The ugly bruise reaching across his neck looked tender, and he kept coughing intermittently. “I’m okay. We can carry on in the morning.” They agreed to set out at first light in the hopes of making it to Megaton before too late in the evening.

 

The pale yellow sky of morning was a welcome sight. Refreshed, and feeling much better aside from his sore nose and tender face, Alfred was ready to keep walking, much more on his guard lest they were to walk into another ambush. They ate breakfast on the move, taking turns to empty a box of sugar bombs or a can of pork ‘n’ beans as the other two watched for approaching threats. He kept testing the signal for Galaxy News Radio, eager for both some upbeat music and any news on the whereabouts of his father, but the channel remained a void of white noise. It was entirely possible that without his glasses he was misreading the pip-boy screen and was on the wrong channel, but optimism could only take him so far. Along a stretch of flat, open road they felt relaxed enough to entertain themselves with light chatter, eager to pass the time.

 

"She was a real sight," Francis rasped, waving a decayed arm about. Alfred wasn't sure how he'd survived so long by moving around so much. "Big, dark eyes. Long, chocolate hair, all the way down to her waist. Golden Mediterranean skin! Her father wouldn't allow us to marry, so we met up in secret and did the forbidden deed to spite him."

 

"Thanks, really wanted to know that," Arthur sniped from his position ahead of them.

 

"You're just jealous that someone as ugly as me has managed to get some action in their life," he cawed back. “You, on the other hand-“

 

“I don’t need anyone, zombie.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

Alfred’s shoulders sank, his gaze turning to the ground, counting his steps. It was easy to forget Arthur was a hardened survivor, he wasn’t looking for anything beyond getting through each day, and if he managed free a slave or earn enough caps for his next round of jet, then all the better. He’d been watching the man closely, struggling to work him out as their relationship swung from one extreme to another. Just as they reached a new level of trust and concern for one another, Arthur retracted and stuck out his spines, lashing abuse at anyone who dared probe his thoughts or feelings. It was exhausting. He wondered how Francis put up with him, though when he thought about it the ghoul probably knew everything there was to know about him, and saw no need to ask questions. Unfortunately, the same didn’t apply to him.

 

The pre-war scientist elbowed him in the ribs. “You ever had a girlfriend, kid?” he teased.

 

Alfred rubbed the back of his burned neck. “Well, actually, now that you mention it…” The ghoul looked at him expectantly, as if asking him to give all the gossip. He sighed, and kicked a stone down the road. “No. I mean, I’ve kissed a girl and stuff-“

 

“’Stuff’?”

 

“Pervert,” he jabbed back at him. “But I never had a girlfriend or anything. No one was interested, and besides, I wasn’t exactly interested either. Which is weird because everyone’s obsessed about family down there. You grow up, get married, have kids. Then you die.”

 

Francis sighed heavily, resting a hand on his chest. “And not one mention of _l’amour_! What a crime.”

 

There was an irritated growl from the man ahead of them. “Don’t start on about that love bullshit, Francis,” Arthur said.

 

“You don’t believe in love?” Alfred asked.

 

Arthur looked away, his expression set as a firm wall to keep out emotion. “I told you, I don’t need anyone.” If he was going to comment any further he was cut off by a fit of dry coughing, doubled over as he wrestled for control over his breathing.

 

Alfred jogged the few paces between them and manoeuvred the gunman’s arms so his hands touched the back of his head, and straightened his posture. “Stand like that, it’ll open your airways,” he said, and gently brushed over his throat with his fingers. It was swollen, and by the way Arthur flinched away with a choked gasp it was painful. “Sorry,” he murmured, frowning. He wished he’d paid more attention to the anatomy lessons his dad had sat him through; there wasn’t anything to be done until he was seen by Doc Church in Megaton. “Don’t die on me Artie, you still owe me a hundred caps.”

 

Arthur pulled away, glaring at him as he reined in his breathing. “For what?” he rasped, sounding more ghoulish than Francis.

 

“You bet me a hundred caps you could shoot every slaver in Paradise Falls.”

 

“That’ll teach you not to accept bets from a poor man.”

 

“We might not be poor for long,” Francis chimed in, pointing to a couple of shanty buildings on the horizon. “Raiders. Might have something worth selling, if you’re up for another fight.”

 

The gunman nodded, sliding the sniper rifle from his back. “We’ve got the drop on them this time,” he spluttered, the occasional cough still sneaking up on him. “Come on, let’s find a better vantage point.”

 

The raiders weren’t stupid; they’d set up their camp on a pre-war highway, giving them a clear view of the surrounding miles of desert. What they wanted was a barrier to hide their position and protect them from returned fire. Arthur settled for squatting behind the wall of a burned-out house just off the road, and took his time scanning the raider camp to count the hostiles, using the rifle scope in place of binoculars. He gave a long, impressed whistle. “Damn, these guys really know how to defend themselves,” he muttered. “We’ll have to watch out for traps once we clear them out.”

 

“How many are there?” Francis asked, setting up his laser pistol. The plan was to pick off as many as possible and lure the rest into the open, and if luck was on their side not getting shot in the process.

 

“Seven. No, eight. Nine at the most.”

 

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” Alfred said. They barely made it out of the last scrap. Even if they had the advantage this time they were clearly outnumbered.

 

Arthur disagreed. “They’ve got a stash up there worth protecting,” he reasoned, “and I want it.” He fired without waiting for the others to respond, and wasted no time in selecting a new target and taking them down too. It took only a couple of seconds for bullets to splinter the rotted boards of the house, Alfred and Francis hampering low against the ground.

 

After five shots Arthur took cover and switched out the rifle for his shotgun. Angry shouts and fierce baying were heading their way. “Ah _merde_ , they’ve got dogs,” Francis spat.

 

Alfred had come across one or two dogs since leaving the vault; mangy, rabid creatures who’d sooner tear your arm off than accept a peace offering of scavenged food. “What do we do?” he whimpered.

 

“Hm, that’s a good question, Alfred,” Arthur said in a mocking tone. “Maybe you should, I don’t know, _start shooting?_ ”

 

Certain he was going to be hit, Alfred shifted into a position where he could see the approaching band of raiders and lined his hunting rifle up with their path. He pulled the trigger, but none of them reacted. Frowning, he tried again, fighting to steady the sights on a blurred figure, but to no avail. He couldn’t possibly hit them without his glasses. _Fuck this._ He backed away, his companions staring at him as he appeared to abandon them. Their attention returned to the onslaught, and they managed to bring another one down. The vault dweller looked around the shattered remains of the house frantically for anything he could arm himself with, and settled for a shovel that lay in the yard, realising too late that he’d stepped into the open.

 

“Get him, Otus!” a woman yelled. Alfred didn’t see her face; he was too busy watching one of the dogs come hurtling towards him.

 

He took a swing with the shovel. The low _pang!_ of the metal resonated over the pained yelp of the mutt, the vibrations shaking his arms. While the animal was dazed he brought the spade end down once more, bashing it over the head and spraying blood across the ground. He heard the woman scream and looked up in time to see her raising a pistol at him, and dodged around the corner of the house. Her shots were sporadic, inaccurate, and he took full advantage of her grief-induced shock to close the gap as she shakily reloaded the weapon. It occurred to him as he brought the shovel through the air to connect with her head that maybe he was the bad guy this time; they weren’t defending themselves, they’d taken the first shot. But he told himself he was doing the world a favour, that these people slaughtered and pillaged peaceful towns, that is was just the way of life. It seemed a little easier to repeatedly beat her head in when he looked at it like that.

 

Lost in a red haze, he was suddenly being shook by the arms. “Alfred, you can stop! For God sake, she’s dead already!”

 

He blinked, the world still blurry except for his friends at his side, a mask of horror on their faces. Still breathing hard, he glanced at the raider’s body at his feet and stepped back, dropping the shovel. “How- How long was I-“ He shook his head in disbelief, he didn’t understand what had happened. While the rusted garden tool hadn’t been enough to completely destroy the skull, there was blood everywhere, so much blood.

 

Arthur grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged him away. “Come on,” he said, voice dark, “I want to check out their camp.”

 

It didn’t take long to approach the small collection of barracks and outhouses. Arthur went first, carefully observing before taking each step lest there be a tripwire or pressure pad lying in wait, and managed to disarm a couple of frag mines they could sell or use for themselves. After circling round a few traps they fanned out in search of ammunition and supplies. As Arthur poured through lockers and trunks in search of something valuable, the ghoul slipped to Alfred’s side. “Are you alright?” he whispered. “What the hell happened?”

 

Alfred swallowed, pausing for a moment, then resumed his work. “I don’t know, it was weird. I think I got it into my head she was with the last raiders who attacked us, you know? Like I was taking revenge.” He grew quiet, tossing cans and boxes into his bag. What was wrong with him? He was fresh out the vault and already he had a thirst for blood; first the slavers, now them. He sighed. “I guess killing’s finally starting to seem normal.”

 

Francis patted him on the back. “It’s tough to accept, but you’ll get used to it. It’s us or them, remember?”

 

The teenager smiled; it felt like a long time since someone had shown genuine concern for his wellbeing. “Yeah. Thanks,” he said.

 

Arthur was right. In one of the ramshackle buildings, under the single bed which presumably belonged to their leader, was a hefty stash of caps and one hell of a gun. As they hauled it out from its hiding spot, the gunman jiggled on the spot, grinning. “Oh she’s _beautiful_ ,” he cooed, looking the minigun over. “Such a shame to sell her, she’d tear through those mutants no problem.”

 

“You can’t be serious, Art,” Francis growled. “Look at it! It’s far too heavy to carry back.”

 

The gunman’s gaze turned to the horizon. A dark patch lay in the distance, their destination. Alfred could see the gears turning in his head, and knew he was trying to work out how little food and water they needed to carry to make it. “Arthur, no,” he pleaded. “I know you’ll make me carry it.”

 

He looked ready to stomp like a petulant child. “But it’s worth a fortune!” he argued. 

 

The ghoul shook his head. “Caps are caps, but food and water are more valuable.”

 

Arthur whined, twisting on the spot to look between them and the minigun. “What are we supposed to do, just leave it here for the next band of raiders that come along? We’d be failing society!”

 

Francis laughed, slapping his friend on the back. “Since when have you ever cared about society?” he attempted to steer him away. Arthur cast a look of longing over his shoulder.

 

Alfred watched, trying not to laugh at the spectacle. Arthur wasn’t going to let this go easily. Fortunately, he had an idea, and a spare grenade. “Don’t worry, Art,” he said. “If you can’t have it, no one can – I’ll make sure of it.”

 

Hauling the damn thing back to solid ground was more than enough effort for the young doctor’s taste; he couldn’t imagine dragging it back to Megaton, caps or not. He made sure Francis had a good hold on their friend as he pulled the pin from the grenade, placed it under the minigun, and ran for his life. A few seconds later the explosive blasted apart in ball of fire and fragments; it wasn’t until the smoke cleared that they could observe the damage. Being a hardy piece of weaponry, the minigun wasn’t obliterated, but the clip slot was busted and a few of the barrels were bent and melted, rendering it useless. He didn’t miss the mournful sigh Arthur gave as they turned and walked away, and reminded himself they only had another day of walking, tops.

\---

“Hey, I know this place.” Alfred frowned as he looked around, and tried to work out how he recognised the buildings around them. It was dusk, and Megaton was another hour’s walk, its hulking mass watching their approach from a couple of miles away.

 

Arthur nodded. “It’s the outskirts of Springvale,” he said. “There’s the school. Bunch of raiders holed up in there, real nasty sort. I know it’s not far now but I don’t think it’s wise to keep going. We should find shelter for the night.”

 

“They’ve probably already spotted us,” Alfred replied. He wished he still had his glasses; the building in question was just a dark blur to him. “Wouldn’t they just torch us in our sleep?”

 

Francis was about to light a smoke, then thought better of drawing attention to their position. “We could go around, but it’d take all night. I say we take our chances, just be careful.”

 

They looked to Arthur; he’d heard their opinions, but they wouldn’t go through with it without his permission. Even Alfred was starting to see him as a leader, when he wasn’t treating him like a child. Arthur checked his shotgun was loaded and said, “Alright, we’ll skirt around the houses. Just keep away from that school.”

 

“They shot at me last time,” Alfred muttered, “I won’t make the same mistake twice.” He realised he’d left himself open to verbal attack, but the gunman said nothing. Maybe he was tired from their long day. Alfred let himself believe it was because he didn’t hate him as much as he used to.

 

Whenever they heard voices they stopped, hidden in the shadows cast by the remains of buildings. Every piece of rusted metal in a backyard was an alarm, and they had to watch each step to ensure they didn’t alert the raiders to their presence. Alfred didn’t remember their reach going this far on the day he’d left the vault; he’d strayed deep into their current territory before they started firing, but it made sense to him that they’d use the cover of darkness to scavenge supplies and set up traps for unsuspecting travellers. They eventually made it to a children’s playground near the other side of town, and while the area offered little cover from gunfire Arthur reckoned they were far enough away to not be threatened. A quick climb over a broken wall brought them to safety within an old house, and they could breathe a sigh of relief. Megaton was a short distance away now, but it was so tempting to make it wait until morning. He could have slept there and then on a pile of rubble had it not been for the sudden blaring of music.

 

The three of them jumped at once; the last thing they needed was to bring attention to themselves. But after a couple of seconds Alfred found he recognised the tune.

 

He wasn’t the only one. “It’s one of those eyebots,” Francis grumbled, flopping back onto the mound of concrete and decaying wood. A spherical robot bobbed a metre or two off the ground in the street ahead of them, several antennae poking out the back of it like some sort of robo-porcupine, presumably to pick up on the signal it was relaying to anyone close enough to hear it.

 

“It’s playing music from Enclave Radio,” Alfred said. “It’s all marching band stuff, and Eden talking about America.”

 

“Urgh, is there a way to switch the damn thing off?” Arthur grumbled, weighing up a rock to throw at it. Alfred caught his arm.

 

“Don’t – the raiders won’t bother us if they think it’s just this old thing knocking about.”

 

Arthur didn’t respond, just glared at the musical robot as it turned and floated away. “God I hate those things,” he said, putting the rock down, “they give me the creeps. Feels like we’re being watched.”

 

Alfred pushed himself to his feet; one of them had to make the first move, else they’d never get going again. “Come on, not far now. Never thought I’d say this again, but I need a drink.” As they moved out into the street he spared a glance up the road he’d descended on that first day, searching for the outcrop of rock where the entrance cave to Vault 101 was. He’d lost count exactly how long he’d been out here, but it hadn’t been long, a month at the most. A part of him was tugging him back; he wanted to know what happened to Amata, to anyone hurt in the radroach infestation. He wanted to know anything and everything the Overseer had about his dad and where he might be. But the only people who’d cared about him in that steel coffin were either dead, missing, or under the Overseer’s constant watch. He had nothing waiting for him in there, while out here he had people who he could tentatively call ‘friends’. He still craved clean water, meals free of radiation, a safe place to sleep every night and all those other luxuries from home, but for now he could live without them.

 

Deputy Weld was there to greet them at the gates. “Welcome to Megaton. The bomb is perfectly safe,” the securitron buzzed. “We promise.”

 

“Lousy piece of junk,” Arthur tutted as they walked past. “This whole place is on borrowed time. Dunno why I bother coming back.”

 

“Oh I don’t know about that, Arthur,” Alfred said, trying to conceal a grin. “I heard they got someone to disarm the thing.”

 

The ghoul made a gummy smile. “Well either way, the water’s still radioactive. I could use a few rads to perk up the old system.”

 

Alfred opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t like the sound of what Francis was suggesting, but his basic medical training had been on humans, not ghouls; who knew the differences in physiology between them?

 

They walked down the steep slope to the bottom of the crater. There sat the bomb in the centre of town, surrounded by a pool of water of questionable quality. People had set up homes and businesses around it generations ago, unafraid of a spontaneous detonation, perhaps reasoning that if it hadn’t blown up by now it never would. A cluster of rag-clothed men and women stood in and around the water, listening to an old man, their leader, preach about the power of Atom. “You go for a little swim then,” Arthur said, “and we’ll meet you at Moriarty’s. Craterside won’t be open ‘til morning now.”

 

The final hike up the other side of the crater was a killer; Alfred had never been so glad to sit down in his life. Two empty stools awaited them at the bar, Gob dutifully polishing glasses behind it with his rotted hands. “Hey kid,” he waved to Alfred, “good to see ya’. Didn’t think you’d make it outa’ D.C. alive. Any word from your dad?”

 

Alfred shook his head in response to the ghoul’s question. “Not yet. I didn’t even get into the metro tunnels. Damn raiders tried to pick me off.”

 

“Harsh,” he huffed, “but what can you do? Can I get you fellas a drink?”

 

“Two beers,” Arthur answered, slumping on the countertop. “You want anything Alfred?”

 

He laughed. “Just one for now, thanks.”

 

It was difficult to not fall asleep at the bar, but he reminded himself he had a springy bed waiting for him in his house. He’d been given it after disarming the bomb in the centre of town, along with a hundred caps which helped him on his way to finding his dad, ultimately leading him to cross paths with Francis and Arthur. He wasn’t certain how the sleeping arrangement would work; he hadn’t told the others about his pad, and wondered where they planned on sleeping. Probably under the foundations of a hillside building knowing them. He couldn’t see them paying more than a hundred caps for a room in this dump, Nova in bed beside them or not.

 

Francis stumbled in as the place was growing more rowdy, the drinks having been passed round since sundown. He locked eyes with the ghoul behind the bar and flounced over to say hi. Arthur took the opportunity to whisper to Alfred, “Gob’s a slave. Moriarty’s been making him work to pay off his debt for fifteen years now, but charges him rent and food as well.”

 

Alfred glared into his drink. “We’re acquainted,” he snarled. “The man tried to charge me three hundred caps for information on my dad. Doesn’t surprise me he’d treat a ghoul like absolute shit, and Nova doesn’t get much better round here.”

 

“I’d spring them out in a second,” Arthur sighed, “if only this weren’t a lawful town. I don’t know why Simms lets him get away with it.”

 

“Boys, boys! How wonderful to see ya’!” A man appeared from the back room. From his grey hair and beard one might assume he was harmless, but a dangerous twinkle sat in his eyes, calculating everything and everyone for a profit. Arthur stood respectfully, but Alfred was close enough to feel the hatred emanating from him.

 

“Hello Moriarty, how’s business?” he asked politely. Alfred didn’t join him in standing or offering a handshake; he wouldn’t make false pretences for his own convenience, not after the trick the old man had tried to pull last time he visited, not after what he’d learnt about Gob and Nova. But Arthur acted like nothing was wrong, that prostituting a defenceless woman to anyone with excess caps was simply the way of things, that smacking your ghoul slave across the back of the head – and not the half-hearted ‘what did I tell you’ sort Alfred sometimes received off Arthur, harder – was the right way to treat another living being. The man went against everything the gunman stood for, everything he was willing to put his life on the line for, and Alfred couldn’t understand why he was being so civil.

 

He sat in silence besides Francis, who was equally quiet as he supped at a bottle of wine. While Alfred received a smarmy nod and a grin, which he blanked, it was as if Moriarty didn’t even see the pre-war scientist, and the teenager wasn’t certain if it was rude or a blessing. Once he pissed off back to wherever he’d been skulking, Alfred hissed to Arthur, “What’s with the act then?”

 

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he explained. “He’ll drop his guard one day, give us some information we shouldn’t have. I say ‘us’ but I really mean me since he won’t even look at Francis. Ghouls are only good enough as slaves to him.”

 

Alfred looked around him. “This place is a shithole, why bother coming back?”

 

Francis poked him in the ribs. “And abandon Gob? How could you suggest such a thing?”

 

They easily lost track of time between drinks and chatter, exchanging stories with the barman with the outside world. His friends avoided mentioning the fate of Paradise Falls, so Alfred did too, suspecting that they didn’t want a horde of vengeful Slavers on their backs; you never could tell who was in alliance with who out here. Francis and Gob spoke of Underworld, a hidden city in central D.C. where ghouls had come together in a community far away from distrustful humans. Wasn’t it dangerous, Alfred asked, referring to the Super Mutants. But the brutes had no interest in the place, and had the upside of scaring off any smoothskins that came their way with ill intent. Seeing as they weren’t targeted by the Mutants, the Brotherhood left them alone, too.

 

“Brotherhood?” Alfred asked.

 

“The Brotherhood of Steel,” Arthur informed him, on his fourth beer. “They came from out west somewhere – _way_ out west – searching for old world technology. Can’t miss them on the roads, great big power armour.”

 

“I’d love to get my hands on a set,” Francis purred. “They turn one man into ten.”

 

“Yeah, you don’t wanna mess with them, even if they try and rattle your cage,” Arthur mused.

 

A hand slammed on the counter between them. “Hey freak, another whiskey,” a gruff man demanded, sliding over some caps. When Gob reached to collect them, he snatched his hand away. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me, zombie, you’ll give me the plague or somethin’.”

 

Arthur was up in a flash, attempting to square up against the stranger despite being several inches shorter. “The _fuck_ did you just say?” he spat, fists clenched. The other patron laughed, unfazed.

 

“You couldn’t take me if you wanted to, squirt.” Gob placed the bottle in front of him and the man snatched it off, using his teeth to bend the cap off. He glared Francis. “Keep your zombie away from the rest of us, and we’ll get along just fine.” He gave the gunman a shove.

 

Arthur stepped back in and pointed the neck of his drink in his face. “The only person who calls that zombie a zombie is me. Now you’d better shut the fuck up before I put a knife between your ribs.”

 

A chorus of ‘ooh’s went around the bar. Moriarty could probably hear everything, but didn’t emerge. “Easy, Arthur,” Francis said quietly, seeming to know where this was heading.

 

The man snickered, holding his hands up in mock defeat, and sauntered away. After a couple of seconds of staring him down Arthur moved to return to his seat, but the stranger made the mistake of muttering, “Feral fucker,” under his breath.

 

Alfred saw the fury in Arthur’s eyes, the stiffness of his shoulders, but by the time he’d opened his mouth to talk him down the ex-slave had crossed the space between them and smashed the bottle over the man’s head, shattering it into an explosion of brown glass. The other drinkers looked up in shock as the scrawny little nobody began to punch and kick the muscular brute to the floor. Finally unfreezing himself, Alfred jumped in and grabbed Arthur by the waist, hauling him away. “Arthur, stop it! You’re going to kill him!” he shouted.

 

“Good! He’s less human than a fucking feral!” He hawked back a mouthful and spat at the man on the ground, surrounded by shards of glass and groaning from the bruising he’d received, his face bloodied.

 

Alfred managed to get him through the door and outside without losing his hold, Arthur still kicking and screaming, voice cracking still from his injury. Francis joined them a moment later. “For God’s sake Arthur, you don’t need to do that every time someone starts up,” the ghoul growled.

 

So this wasn’t the first time. Yes, Alfred could see now; the sudden outburst was in the name of principle, that he wouldn’t let anyone no matter how tall or broad toss a slur around like that. But he was more concerned with their current predicament. He shook Arthur and planted his feet on the ground. “Arthur, shut up!” he ordered him. The gunman’s viridian eyes widened and he stopped struggling, listening to him instead. “We need to get out of here before Sheriff Simms comes by, now get your ass moving.” He pointed in the vague direction of his house, over the bolted-together ramps and stairs that trailed through the settlement. Arthur ducked his head and did as he was told, the other two following close behind.

 

Alfred pulled Arthur up once they reached the hollow metal box he called a home. “I don’t know where you planned on sleeping, but we can stay here instead,” he explained, digging in the pocket of his jumpsuit for the key.

 

“You have a house here?” Arthur asked quietly.

 

“I told you, _someone_ deactivated the bomb.”

 

Francis stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “Well, I don’t know about you two smoothskins but I’ve got to see a guy about, uh, a dog. See you in the morning. Try to stay out of trouble, Arthur.”

 

Alfred all but shoved Arthur inside the building, and slammed the door shut behind them, locking it. “Geez, Arthur, what happened to not having your cage rattled?” he sighed.

 

He watched as the older man surveyed the sparse furnishings of his home. He had a couple of lockers for storage, not much in them at the moment, and a burned couch pulled from one of the houses in Springvale. One of the legs was missing and it wobbled like an earthquake with the slightest shift in balance. The kitchen, tucked behind the stairs, showed only a mild improvement. The refrigerator was actually powered thanks to Megaton’s generators, helping to keep food and medicine fresher for longer, though the majority of the goods he had stored were dry or tinned. He mostly used the fridge for keeping bottles of fresh, filtrated water cool and ready to drink. The thought had him gravitating towards it, and he offered Arthur a drink.

 

“Something alcoholic, if you’ve got it,” he said, carefully perching on the couch.

 

Alfred bit his tongue about him having had enough already, but fetched him a glass of vodka anyway. “Here,” he said, passing it to him. “I’d give you beer, but I sold it all. Only kept this for sterilisation.”

 

He sipped at his water, listening to the wind sing through the holes rusted in the sides of the house. It was loosely stapled together with bolts and nails, welded in the weaker spots. He didn’t know how long it had been in Megaton and he didn’t care to ask, all too aware of the disturbing creak and groan of the support beams holding the construction to the side of the crater. Ignorance was bliss, and he slept here so infrequently he figured he could chance it regarding whether or not the whole structure would collapse during the night. Soon after they started to make small talk to fill the silence, Alfred’s Mr Handy robot descended the stairs, bobbing with the centuries old jet propulsion. “Good evening, sir! May I do anything for you or your guest?”

 

Arthur looked the three-armed machine up and down. “Is the robot servant really necessary?” he questioned, downing the last of his drink.

 

“Wadsworth came with the house,” the medic explained.

 

“Oh. Well in that case-“ He handed the robot his empty glass, which it grasped with its claw. “-fill that up would you?”

 

“Certainly, sir,” the robot replied in its clipped accent, and hovered into the kitchen.

 

Alfred chuckled. “Seems like you’re used to being waited on hand and foot.”

 

“Of course. Why do you think I keep Francis around?”

 

Alfred caved and had another drink as well. Still sensitive to alcohol, he quickly found himself giddy and relaxed as they talked on the sofa, continuing as if Arthur hadn’t beaten the living daylights out of the man in Moriarty’s. His pip-boy just about managed to pick up the signal for Galaxy News Radio, providing them with some cheerful background music. He’d lost count how many Arthur had gone through, but judging the senseless laughter coming from the seasoned drinker he’d say it was too many.

 

“Are you gonna throw up again?” Arthur asked him, tripping over his syllables.

 

Alfred groaned. “You know about that?”

 

“I know everything. Like how you’re just a kid playing grown-ups. I bet you’ve never even been kissed.”

 

Alfred snorted, insulted. “Yes I have!”

 

Arthur laughed, almost sliding off the settee with his heavy movements. “No no, a _proper_ kiss. Like this.”

 

The force of Arthur’s arms yanking him through the air almost threw him to the floor. As it happened their faces collided instead, the pain thankfully numbed by the booze, and he was attacked with teeth and tongue. He tried to talk, to ask Arthur what he was doing, but whenever he pulled away he was pulled back and devoured. Once the initial confusion wore off he let himself succumb to indulgence. Arthur never stopped to repeat his question but the answer was no, no he’d never been kissed like this before. Though he was shorter and lighter Arthur quickly overpowered him, pressing him into the couch and straddling his lap, one hand trailing up the back of Alfred’s neck and taking a fistful of dirty blond hair. He didn’t know what the other was thinking, nor what he was thinking; their brains were probably fried to fuck by the radiation from the bomb, but it didn’t matter, this was happening. He’d been weighing Arthur up, toying with the idea of doing things with him – what those things were he didn’t know, thanks to what Arthur called his ‘sheltered’ upbringing. But with Francis out of the scene for now and a safe place to stay the night, he had plenty of time to find out. Arthur gave an enthusiastic moan as he groped at that perfect ass he’d been watching all the way back from Big Town.

 

“You’ve got a bed, right?” Arthur growled, nipping at Alfred’s lip as he ground his hips against his thigh. Too stunned and drunk to speak, he nodded and gestured to the ceiling. Arthur slipped off him and yanked him to his feet so he could lead them up the rickety stairs and into his equally rickety bedroom. But Arthur suddenly changed his mind. The shorter man spun him round by the shoulder and pinned him against the wall, wasting no time in unzipping the front of his tattered and burnt vaultsuit and shoving a hand down it.

 

“Fuck!” Alfred gasped, voice hitching as Arthur grabbed his hardening cock. He let out a stream of breathy moans and relished in the sensation of being stroked, rocking his hips to meet Arthur’s hand, tipping his head down for another erratic kiss while his hands worked to undo the straps of the gunman’s armour. As the leather pads hit the floor Alfred wrapped his arms under his lover’s thighs and scooped him up, Arthur closing his legs tight around his waist, still laying sloppy kisses on his lips as he allowed himself to be carried into Alfred’s room. If only he was always this docile.

 

His bedroom was a mess of precariously stacked pre-war items pulled from nearby ruins, drawers overflowing with stores of ammo, and heaps of yellowed books and torn magazines scattered over the desk and floor. The bed was only a single, but that didn’t deter Alfred from dumping his partner onto it and clambering on top of him, demanding more kisses as he tugged their final layers of clothing away, a fire burning in his stomach. Arthur moaned and stroked himself, cheeks flushed and lips swollen as he gazed drunkenly up at Alfred. “ _Fuck_ , I wanna cum,” he groaned, arching off the bed. “I never have any fun out there.”

 

Alfred pressed close to him, burying his face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the heat off his body. He groaned as he rubbed their cocks together. “I want you,” he shuddered, surprised at how low his voice had gotten. “Fuck, I want you so bad. You make me crazy.” No reply; not a comment, not a moan. “Arthur?” He pushed himself up, the room spinning around his head, to find the gunman passed out with his mouth hanging loosely open, chest gently rising and falling, dead to the world. Between days of walking and enough alcohol to poison an army, he must have crashed the moment his head hit the pillow.

 

“Great. Just great,” Alfred muttered, peeling himself off of him. His tired bones and aching shoulders empathised with the gunman though, and he squished himself in between the wall and Arthur’s unconscious body. He pulled the heavy blankets over them and listened to the low creak of the building until sleep washed over him.

 

\---

 

Waking up wasn’t so graceful. Even before opening his eyes he felt dizzy, every little sound amplified by his throbbing head. At least the mattress was supportive and the covers warm; he shifted in bed to make himself more comfortable, rolling into the centre for more room. Why had he been crushed up against the wall?

 

Someone was fidgeting about a few feet away, muttering to themselves. Alfred cradled his head in his hands. “Keep it down,” he grumbled at the source of the noise. “Hung over.”

 

The other person took a sharp gasp, and fell silent. Wondering what was so terrifying, Alfred cracked his eyes open. Arthur stood, half dressed, in the centre of the room. Images of the night before came flooding back to him and he sat up in bed, trying to summon the correct words for this predicament. Arthur turned his back on him and continued to search for his clothing and armour. “Arthur?” he said at last.

 

It took him a while, but the gunman finally turned to face him; he wouldn’t look him in the eye though, and his shoulders stood tense like the hackles of a threatened cat. “What happened last night was a mistake, and it can’t happen again.” Then he went back to fixing the buckles of his armour at the right length.

 

Alfred didn’t know what to say. ‘What’ and ‘why’ were strong contenders, but he kept his mouth shut. Arthur must have felt the disappointment radiating off him and ruffled his hair up with a frustrated snarl. “I don’t jump into bed and fuck any random kid that comes walking along. I have standards you know!”

 

“Wait,” Alfred interrupted, huffing with amusement. “You think we had sex?”

 

Arthur flushed. “Didn’t we?” he ground out, folding his arms tight across his chest.

 

“No!”

 

“Liar.”

 

“It’s true! You were too blackout drunk to remember. We just did… stuff.” He glanced away, feeling his cheeks burn. “But you fell asleep in the middle of it.”

 

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Arthur snarled, glaring at his boots as he tied the laces. He stood and faced him again, taking a breath. “I don’t feel that way about you, and I never will, about anyone. Don’t you get it? I don’t _need_ anyone else. So forget this ever happened.”

 

“But I-“

 

“What? Love me?” Arthur scoffed. When Alfred didn’t argue with him his face dropped. “I have to go.”

 

He didn’t ask him to stay; there was no point. Hearing the door slam shut hurt more than any wound the Wasteland had given him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> Some of this was copied-and-pasted from ‘What to Buy…’, which I’m still absolutely in love with *pats self on back*. I think of it as a condensed version of this fic so the characters are better expressed and meh, I had to cram it. And aw, our little baby is flourishing into a revenge-hungry killer. :) They grow up so quickly these days.
> 
> Also porn. But who cares about that?
> 
> Thanks for reading! It’s taken me so long to get this chapter out. The next few will put Alfred back on track for finding his dad, so if you’ve played the game you’ll have an idea where this is headed.


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